


Hold my Hand and Keep it Steady (I'm your One)

by Kiyuomi



Series: Hold my Hand (Soul Eater AU) [2]
Category: Soul Eater, Soul Eater Not!, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Accidental Kissing, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Brief Recap of previous Fic, Burning/Freezing, Character Study, Drama, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fight Scenes, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Focus Couples are JYuri and LeoJiChu, Friends to Lovers, Getting over Breakup, Horror, Implied/Referenced Abuse, JJ's POV, LONG AF FIC, M/M, Mild Gore, Multi, Multiple Death Scenes of monsters, Other, Polyamory, Prior Knowledge of Soul Eater/SoulEaterNot! is not needed, Psychological Drama, Reading this fic may make you cry, Rivals to Lovers, Sequel, Slow Burn, Soul Eater AU, Violence, Yuri Plisetsky Week 2017, hand holding, powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 22:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10423428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyuomi/pseuds/Kiyuomi
Summary: Jean-Jacques dies at ten years old.He comes back as JJ, with his hair cut up exposing the shiny words and an easy-going grin, a casual way of walking and talking and suddenly he’s not just the “Leroy’s boy” he’s the best candidate for future Death Scythe.-JJ is content living in a glass cage up until Yuri comes in and smashes it. He extends a hand and really, how is JJ supposed to say no to an entrance like that?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Things to keep note while reading:  
> 1) many concepts from Soul Eater have been simplified for this fic.  
> 2) It's tagged Soul Eat Not! because it takes concepts from both mangas  
> 3) This is a sequel, so you may enjoy it more by reading the prequel first!
> 
> That's it, have fun!

                The child of a Death Scythe and her meister, Jean-Jacques Leroy is born under lights and eyes, under glittering curtains and glass slippers, between open hands and closed ones. Jean-Jacques Leroy is born with his last name firmly tagged onto his existence, a gold block of words set between his loose bangs that, when revealed, change the attitude of the people toward him instantly.

                Jean-Jacques dies at ten years old.

                He comes back as JJ, with his hair cut up exposing the shiny words and an easy-going grin, a casual way of walking and talking and suddenly he’s not just the “Leroy’s boy” he’s the best candidate for future _Death Scythe_.

                It’s a long path ahead of him.

                JJ doesn’t want to walk it alone.

-

                The hospital walls are cold, coated with a shiny surface that stains with every fingerprint. Doctors bustle about, whispering, wandering, accusing. More than a few still on sight of the waiting young man, recognition flashing across their faces. Some freeze, brows pinched in fury, while others simply cast a hopeful but sorrowful look his way. A few, just a couple, give him a recognizing glance and then move, walking away, away, as though he doesn’t exist at all.

                The doctor in front of JJ grimaces as he grasps the handle to the door, twisting it just slightly. The white coat he wears is splattered with blood on the corners, the collar torn from rough handling. His glasses are crooked, the right lenses cracked.

                “Are you sure you want to visit her?” He’s one of the few people who hasn’t been afraid to stare him in the eye today. It’s almost appreciated.

                The weekend that the Leroy family takes a family trip from Liberty City, it goes under attack. JJ wakes to mom telling him to take care of his siblings, okay, don’t move from here, don’t pick up the phone and don’t turn on the television. Dad grabs his coat and mom’s hand and then they’re gone, out the door and into the wild world away from there.

                The full aftermath of the attack is yet to be known. But here, with the doctor’s hand on her door, JJ can do something. He can provide something, anything, to the city’s motivating hero.

                The words spin in his mind like a broken record.

_It’s your fault that she’s like this._

                “No,” JJ smiles, placing the box of manila and orange cookies on the nearest waiting chair; the wrappings, pink and green, Isabella’s favorite colors, rustling with the movement, “please give her my regards.”

-

                Eleven fifty-seven pm, JJ stubbornly declares in bed that he’s never going to get a meister, that he’s sick of waiting and fuck, he’s going to go independent, partnership be damned. Watch out Death, a new single, independent and proud Death Scythe is going to come up.

                Two minutes later and an astounding amount of positivity posts his way, JJ then decides that he will get a meister, that his meister is going to fantastic, and he’s not accepting anybody who isn’t willing to work their way to him. A son of the Leroy family isn’t going to have just any partner, after all.

                No, that’s not fair either. It takes only a minute for guilt to settle in following the decision. JJ doesn’t want a coward, or a groveler, or an overaggressive partner. He wants one that, that

                That what?

                At exactly twelve, he gets the message.

                “Death City Academy…?”

                For the first time since the attack, he takes the incentive. It’s been years since he’s seen the other weapon in person, and besides him getting a pretty wonderful meister, JJ’s pretty much been unaware of his life. Still, he’s sure that there are plenty of good available meisters to recommend.

                JJ swipes onto Otabek’s name and presses call.

-

                Yuri Plisetsky is everything and nothing like what Otabek had said.

                For one thing, Yuri had glared at him and pretty much dismissed everything he said from the get go. To simply ignore being asked to be a partner is pretty bad. But then the school heads had stepped in, and before JJ knew it there was a hand reaching out for him and a grip, warm, fragile, that he never really knew. Yuri was strong, more than the NOT class on his profile would make some assume. His fingers were tight, his stance was steady, and even though he didn’t know a thing about JJ there was something more than just allowance in his swings.

                Yuri Plisetsky’s soul flared like ice, strong, heavy, a desperate call for something solid, something worth chasing for but it melts away, slipping through the fingers.

                JJ had never felt a soul so strongly before.

                Then Yuri had disappeared from him. He hid himself away in blank stares and covered ears, hood over his face and steps hurried. The little things JJ did, the little notes, the little minutes passed waiting for him, were crushed under the large presence Yuri had. His desire to be alone would win any duel.

                So JJ left him alone.

                He transferred to the upper class, the EAT class. He greeted Otabek and Leo with a sunny smile the next day, NOT jacket traded in for an EAT blazer. He jumped, startled, when Leo had slammed his hands down, talking about the rudeness in Yuri. Otabek had bantered, half joking half not, and JJ had laughed in wait.

                He waited for when Yuri would come through the door, old uniform swapped out for new, a stronger soul wavelength, a harsher grip and more narrow eyes.

                He would wait for when Yuri would come. He could wait however long he needed.

                After all, JJ’s waited his entire life to meet his partner.

                Yuri didn’t come through the EAT classroom door. He didn’t come crashing in, crisply ironed new uniform in sight. He didn’t make JJ wait long, either.

                “What the hell is JJ style supposed to be?”

                “What?”

                Yuri came in the middle of lunch, in his dirty hooded jacket and tee shirt, the words “DCA NOT” scrawled across the front. He came with a wrapped lunchbox in hand, glossy leopard print.

                He came with a stronger soul wavelength, a gentler grip, and soft eyes.

-

                “Yuri. Yuri, Yuri, Yuri.”

                There’s nothing so frantic about the situation. The sun is up, high, cast overhead with that strange snarky laugh that Death City proudly presents. They’re somewhere down the long, long staircase that Death City Academy provides, some thousand or so steps that they lumber up every morning and down every night. JJ has lunch to be bought, he’s hungry and tired and Professor Katsuki might be one of the kindest people he’s ever met but god does he hit like a truck.

                “JJ, do you want me to be your meister?”

                His heart thuds in his chest. He wants to say something, anything, more than what he can. Yuri deserves more, deserves everything, because he up and left JJ, disappeared from him and came back as though ignoring someone would be anything near attractive, came back demanding and blunt and every bit as confusing as the one Otabek had described months ago.

                “Yes,” he manages, and gosh, god, Yuri takes a step upward, then another, and JJ’s bowed over the blonde, hands shaky over face, unsure because he doesn’t think he can even describe the feelings swirling inside. “Fuck, Yuri, yes.”

                A little part of him, just a tiny bit, wants to cry.

JJ’s never been asked that before.

-

                The grip on a weapon is nothing like the grip on a hand.

                They’re both solid, comforting, a reminder that the other person is there. But one is sweet, a gesture of kindness, of good faith and good will.

                The one on JJ is harsh, steadfast and filled with the desire to kill.

                “Ugh, disgusting,” Yuri’s words are the same, harsh breathing and narrowed eyes on their target. The corrupted person in front of them sways, disfigured from all the legs attached to their body. It’s rotting flesh, green and red and bulging, a dozen legs stitched onto the strange form. The person roars, swinging their axe, limp limbs bouncing to his step.

                The thought of dealing with such a thing in human form is disgusting.

                “I’m swinging,” Yuri hisses. He raises JJ upward, a shiny rod, and waits as the slobbering human comes closer, closer.

                “Do it.” The blond swings downward without mercy, splitting into the deformity’s skull with a solid crack.

                JJ isn’t meant for this. A golden staff, shiny, smooth, embedded with tiny gems along the handle and coming to a small crown at the top, little studded ridges and coming together to a pointed end, more beautiful and gorgeous than deadly. He’s something not fragile, but delicate, meant for small and curious fingers, gentle aged ones, a touch softer and pretty. Something so ornate is meant to be on stage, glittering in the lights and awe of others.

                Something so wonderful should be protected (trapped) behind glass walls.

                “I’m swinging,” Yuri whispers again, without hesitation, and JJ doesn’t grimace as he comes spiraling down, sickening crunch after crunch. The legs on the creature shake with every jostling thrust, quivering as their balance goes upside and the thing, the once-human, falls.

                Every time, Yuri shatters the glass panes, reaches in and leaves with something precious.

                “Dead.” Something about wavelength bonds and pure intuition is what loosens Yuri’s hands just as JJ shifts, bubbling, the weird morphing sensation of unraveling himself from object to human. It’s grown into something more comfortable than strange at this point of his life, but the buzzing vibrations in his legs when his feet touch the floor and the strange warmth that tingles through his body is constant.

                “I’m pretty sure it died before the last bludgeon, Yuri,” JJ smothers his chuckles, looking down at the still form. The grotesque corruption doesn’t budge an inch, and its soul isn’t out either. “It _is_ dead, right?”

                “You want to touch it?” JJ grimaces at the thought, tip toeing away from the mess on the ground. Call him what you will; JJ isn’t a fan of gore. “Of course it’s dead, just give the soul a second.” True to Yuri’s words, a greenish yellow soul slowly bobs upward from the deformity’s head, swirling slowly in place as it rises. “See?”

                “Somehow, I’m still amazed that you can do that.” JJ isn’t certain whether it’s a special meister skill, but he’s never gotten the grasp of seeing souls. Dad tried teaching him all until he entered Liberty City, and even mom couldn’t quite explain it. Yuri though, always knows when to stop hitting.

                JJ likes that about Yuri.

                He also likes the souls that come from every mission.

                “Bon Appetit.” The soul tosses in his hand, freely swinging as he drops it into his mouth. Consuming souls is… a weird sensation. It’s something slimy, neither tangible nor intangible, the gentlest flicker of a flame if a finger moves through it fast enough. Swallow it slowly, and like a fire, burns happen. The feeling of it slipping down his throat and simply disappearing however, is always odd.

                “I can’t believe you can eat like that when you won’t even touch the body,” Yuri, always snarky, comments as JJ swallows, wiping at his mouth though there isn’t a trace of soul behind.

                “Excuse you, I do touch the body. In fact, you used me to clobber it just a minute ago,” JJ isn’t above sassing back. Hey, it’s fun.

                No one back at Liberty would approach him like this.

                “In human form, stupid.”

                “Gross, why would you ever suggest that?” Yuri grins in response, edging closer to the bloody mess on the floor as JJ fake retches, drawing back. “I’m not touching you if you touch it.”

                “Even if I need a weapon?” Fuck. Yuri lowers on his knees slowly, eyes on JJ the entire time, waiting, waiting.

                “No, okay, stop, stop! Yuri, that’s disgusting, no,” JJ protests, flinching away as Yuri turns his toothy grin his way. The mischievous Russian doesn’t even get up, he just stays in that squatting position with his hands barely over the guy’s head, and ugh, no. “Yuri, seriously, stop.”

                “Fine,” Yuri sighs, finally stepping away from the deformity. JJ flashes him another look of disgust, earning himself a raised eyebrow. “Touching common people too much for you, JJ?”

                “I touch you just fine,” JJ huffs, reaching out and securing Yuri’s fingers between his own. They’re a little cold, long and thin, and he sighs as he brings his other hands up to warm up Yuri’s. “Though I guess you’re not exactly common folk, huh?”

                Yuri grunts in reply, eyes downcast as JJ rubs against his hands. His fingers _are_ cold, probably because they’re approaching early winter weather, and as much as JJ wants to see snow he’d rather his meister not freeze to death first.

                “Come on, let’s go home.”

                Yuri’s eyes are dim in the moonlight, clear green eyes that sparkle upward as he tilts his head, locks of hair falling over high on his cheekbones. His skin, already pale, seems almost pure white this dark, a soft, delicate look of a doll. Small, sweet, and in the angle JJ can see how his shadow would simply tower over the other. So easy, so remarkably easy, for a weapon to turn in this position. A doll is so easy to shatter.

                Then his hands flip, his grip is on JJ, and his fingers, thin, long, circle his wrists just fine.

                “Let’s go.”

                Right, JJ grins, letting loose of Yuri. The hands curl around his, pulling, away from the bloodied mess on the tile floor. He almost forgot.

                Yuri Plisetsky is more a warrior than a princess.

-

                It’s the following Tuesday that JJ realizes.

                “Yuri, are you allowed to be here?” Here being the open seat next to his, in the middle column and fifth row of the EAT classroom on the fourth floor. Here being a seat which he distinctly remembers not being filled before. Here being not the NOT classroom, where he’s fairly certain Yuri is meant to be. “Wait, you’re not skipping, are you?”

                “No,” Yuri rolls his eyes, kicking off from the table to lean back in the swinging chairs. There’s a moment of him raising his eyebrows at the sudden enthusiasm in JJ’s second question. “What, you want me to skip?”

                “No,” JJ scowls, pushing Yuri’s legs off his seat, “I want you to focus on class.”

                “Yuri always comes to the EAT classroom before exams.” Otabek leans over the two, smiling softly. “Prospective students from the NOT classrooms are invited to join EAT lectures and practices the weeks before the exams to see whether they can handle the tougher work pace. Yuri just likes to escape the NOT classes though.”

                “That’s because they’re boring,” Yuri barks back, glancing over at JJ, “they are, you know that. Obviously I’m going to the classes that actually teaches me to do thing.”

                “Aw, Yuri, don’t be like that! I loved the NOT classes—Professor Katsuki was the best teacher.” Phichit pops in from behind, laughing as Yuri startles at his appearance. Behind the Thai meister is his weapon and boyfriend, Guang Hong Ji, and lingering beside him is Leo. JJ flashes his friend a grin, receiving a light hearted grimace directed at Phichit and Yuri in reply.

                “Just because you had a crush on Professor Katsuki doesn’t mean that you enjoyed NOT classes, Phichit. I remember you hating the written exams much more,” Guang Hong points out cheekily, smirking as Phichit whines in response, pinching his arm.

                “It’s true that we didn’t do much in NOT classes. What’s the difference for exams though?” JJ asks.

                “Oh, that’s right; you guys never had to go through transfers! Well, hmm, there’s not that big a difference. The exams for the classes are pretty much the same—one written exam and one practical exam. As for the differences, hm,” Phichit replies, pausing to mull over.

                “The practical exams are different,” Otabek cuts in, “NOT classes have a weapon and meister display of their soul wavelength compatibility. EAT classes have a pair go out for a practice witch demonstration. But for you two, it’ll be different, since you’re testing to move up to the EAT class.”

                “Written exams are pretty much the same. They’re just there so you can tell your parents you got a decent grade. It’s the practicals that are important in actually ranking high and getting priority for missions,” Guang Hong explains. JJ hums, mulling over the words. It doesn’t seem like a hard exam at all, and given Yuri’s strength that he’s seen in the past few missions together, there’s no doubt that his partner will be a shoo-in.

                Except, it’s been five years since Yuri’s entered the academy and he’s still in NOT.

                “Wait, Yuri, why are you in NOT then?” The words are out before JJ can stop it. Yuri freezes mid-kick of the desk, eyes widening as Otabek chokes back a laugh; Phichit not even trying to stop his sudden stem of giggles. Guang Hong and Leo only give equally confused glances.

                “Shut up,” Yuri pointedly glares at his two laughing friends, huffing with arms crossed. “It’s not like I didn’t want to—but if you didn’t have a partner then you got a random pair. And well,” groaning, Yuri kicked off from the desk again, rocking in place, “I couldn’t match with anyone. That’s all.”

                “That’s why we’re expecting especially big things from Yuri this semester.” It’s not only JJ who startles at the voice of Professor Nikiforov, standing over with a pointed look Yuri’s way.

                “This year I’m sure you’ll get in easily, isn’t that right, Mr. Leroy?” The look Professor Nikiforov gives is pointed, something sweet and sinister. JJ isn’t sure whether he grins or grimaces in reply, glancing over to Yuri.

                “We’ll do our best, sir.”

                “I’m happy to hear that. Now, everyone, to your seats. Classes are beginning!” Victor’s voice steadily raises, echoing in their small lecture hall. Phichit claps, waving merrily to JJ and Yuri before heading back to his seat. Guang Hong and Leo shuffle away, sitting just two rows behind them. Otabek gives them one last soft smile, turning to Mila’s open arms. Glancing over at the two, Victor’s voice drops low once more.

                “Wait for me after class.”

                Those five words keep JJ awake and unfocused for the entire class. His notebook is diligently filled with lines of scribbles, but ask him a word of the lesson and he wouldn’t be able to say a thing. Yuri’s no help either, falling asleep fifteen minutes in, and heartily ignored by Professor Nikiforov.

                Though, JJ did get a thankful nod for placing his jacket over Yuri’s shoulders.

                “Remember Eater’s Theorem: channeling your soul wavelength can help harden and make your physical form stronger—however, it comes at a major cost. If we measure the force of your wavelength and plug it into Eater’s equation, we can see calculate the durability of the body and the length of your form at your best. However, say that if you’re at only 50% capability,” Professor Nikiforov’s voice is cheerful despite the dull words he says.

                The one thing JJ will miss about Liberty Academy is this: the lack of tests. In the real world, what matters isn’t so much the formulas bouncing around one’s head but the way they utilize them. It doesn’t matter if he knows the name of an exercise if he can do it.

                “It’s said that due to weapon’s ability to transform, they have higher durability than meisters, causing us to invoke Eater’s second Theorem. We plug in a different formula, and even though we’re using the same numbers, the output by the weapon is nearly double the output of the meister with the same force.”

                The lesson flies by, quiet except for the sounds of Professor’s words and the soft scribblings of writing, followed by the occasional flapping of a page. The student in the first row third seat taps on their cellphone; a person two rows behind them in the left section has fallen asleep. There’s few fully attentive students, swapping out colorful pens and drawing helpful tips. Then there’s the few who simply draw, doodling over their papers and onto the desk.

                “If we put Eater’s and Rowl’s theorems together, we can see how the exchange of power between meister and weapon works. Clearly, from past experience, we know that working with a partner gives quite a boost in strength. But, how much is that boost? Using Eater as our base equation, and using the change in x in Rowl’s theorem, we get a new calculation!”

                It’s peaceful.

                The bell rings.

                “Oh, is that it then? I haven’t even finished the notes though,” Professor Nikiforov pauses mid-sentence, chalk scraping against the board.

                “Professor, you never finish the notes!” JJ snickers at the callout, followed by several more students laughing and speaking out. Victor only chuckles along to the complaints, mostly done by students who weren’t paying attention or sleeping.

                “Oh well, if you came to my special afterschool classes you’d know the whole story!” Sounds of disagreement bounce in the room, followed by the scrapes of chairs and rustling of books. Students cram their hastily copied notes into their bags. Some merrily wave at Professor before heading out the door, others speed across the room to speak to their friends before exiting as a group. In minutes, the room is mostly empty.

                Professor Nikiforov sets three sticks of incense aflame at the center table, glancing upward at the few remaining who crowd his desk.

                JJ recognizes most of them. They’re standing in pairs, or well, partnerships. Weapon behind meister, so he takes a few steps back to linger behind Yuri. The blonde gives him a tired gaze, probably still half asleep. Yuri yawns, wide and sleepy. Cute.

                Otabek moves to stand beside JJ and behind Mila, the redhead girl grinning cheerily with her bag hoisted over her shoulder. Beside her is Phichit, followed by Guang Hong. There’s a trio next to them; a happy looking blonde with a stubble, followed by two darker skinned weapons, one guy and one girl. Most likely, they’re either twins or siblings. Taking on two weapons is rare, possible, but it only ever happens when the weapons have some profound bond between them to begin with.

                Still, JJ can’t help glancing over to Phichit.

                Was he wrong?

                The door swung open.

                “You’re late!” Yuri barked. Professor Katsuki laughed sheepishly, weighed down by what seemed to be three giant shopping bags, heavily crammed. Professor Nikiforov bounded into action the moment his partner entered the door, going from lazing at his desk to his side in a blink.

                “Yuuri, what happened?” Yuri gags at the view of Professor Nikiforov’s hands encircling Katsuki’s, their eyes tracking each other with familiar ease. Mila chuckles at Yuri’s exaggerations, but her eyes are lit up at the sight.

                “What are those bags?” Oh, the dark skinned man has a deep voice. The girl, sister, someone, beside him doesn’t bother asking. Before the rest of them can say a word, she’s at Professor Katsuki’s side, poking into the bags.

                “Sorry, sorry, everyone. Sara, no, don’t touch that! It’s dangerous,” so her name’s Sara. The girl huffs, removing her hand but not letting loose, fingers tight on the bag handles. “It took a little while to get these into the bags without reacting.” Professor Katsuki pulls away from her with an apologetic smile, rustling the plastic bags. He glances over to the students crowded around the table, eyes widening at the sight of JJ.

                “Oh, JJ, you came!” Professor Katsuki’s smile takes on a lighter tone, hustling with Victor and Sara at his side, “That’s perfect—now we have an even number of partners!” The bags clunk noisily against the wooden top of the desk but his eyes stay on JJ, then Yuri, flickering from person to person. “Let’s see, now we’ve got Yuri with JJ, Mila with Otabek, Phichit with Guang Hong an—huh? Leo didn’t come today?”

                JJ’s eyes widen at the words. A quick glance at Phichit and Guang Hong reveal all he needs to know—a flash of guilt over Phichit’s face, a tightening of Guang Hong’s jaw. So he wasn’t wrong.

                “Well then,” Professor Katsuki moves on, “we also have Emil, Michele and Sara. Good attendance today, everyone.” The tall dark skinned man nods at his name, which means Emil must be the scruffy blonde in front.

                “Yuuri, what’s in there?” Mila asks, poking against the corner of the nearest bag. Professor Katsuki yelps at her movement, quickly stopping her finger from reaching in as Sara did earlier. Professor Nikiforov laughs joyfully behind.

                “Yuuri, it’s okay. They’re going to have to touch it anyway,” the words don’t seem very encouraging, as Professor Katsuki sighs, heaving himself upward and dragging the bags towards his side of the desk. With slow hands, he pulls down the tabs of the nearest bag, shuffling it down, down, over the mysterious object bulging against the bag.

                It being what looks like a giant, ornamental bowl. Inside swirls some strange liquid, cloudy and thick; JJ grimaces at the sight of it. Something, _something_ odd emits from the bowl. Yuuri struggles with the second bag, then the third, then the fourth, all containing the same odd pot. In a matter of minutes, they’re staring at a table cluttered with the murky thing.

                “Professor, what is this?” Otabek manages to ask. Professor Katsuki blinks at him, then again, startling into action.

                “No one touch these! It’s important that no one person touches them. Okay?” They all nod in unison, quiet at the sudden energy overtaking the normally quiet professor. “This is from my mom. They’re ancient holding pots for, essentially, potions.” Yuri hardens at the word, stance tightening and JJ places a hand on his shoulder. “The liquid here is only meant for a weapon and meister to touch at once. It’s going to be painful to do it alone, because it sucks and tries to trap your soul wavelength.” Yuri’s shoulders drop, slowly, and JJ lets his hand fall. “It’s training to maintain your connection even when things get tough.”

                “What about three people?” It’s not one of the trio at the far right that asks the question but Guang Hong, looking skeptical over the full brim.

                “Three people are okay,” Professor Katsuki answers. Guang Hong gives the pots another glance, but refrains from any other action. Beside him, Michele, the tall weapon, rolls his eyes.

                “As if you care.” The words are dreadfully quiet, but even from the other side of the desk, JJ tenses. Silence lingers, a horribly short pause, and when JJ lets his eyes wander from the table to Guang Hong’s face, he isn’t sure what to expect.

                A furious pinched glare isn’t it.

                “Alright, everyone, let’s calm down,” Professor Katsuki frets, glancing worriedly over the two weapons. Professor Nikiforov chuckles behind him, moving forward to grip one pot at Yuri and JJ’s end of the table, hoisting it up with ease and placing it several meters away.

                “Yuuri, help me get started!” The words both kick Professor Katsuki into gear and lighten the mood, and in moments they’re all shifting, furrowing around their designated pot with curiosity and apprehension. Mila and Otabek remain the closest, glancing over their green colored tub, but JJ can’t help his eyes from straying to the fierce bite of Guang Hong’s lip as he stares downward.

                “Focus, idiot.” JJ turns to Yuri. He’s pointedly staring his way, hands on hip, and gesturing downward to the milky liquid. “We have to go in together or it won’t work.”

                “Ah, got it, got it. Don’t worry,” JJ smirks, shrugging off his blazer. Yuri scoffs at his words, but his hoodie comes off too; they roll up their sleeves together, JJ folding meticulously and Yuri tugging them upward past the elbow.

                “Don’t start until Professor Katsuki or I instruct you to do so!” Professor Nikiforov warns. He turns to the trio at the far end, speaking in low tones. Professor Katsuki gives Otabek and Mila a familiar smile, kneeling and explaining. JJ and Yuri relax, sitting around their pot in wait.

                The room smells nice, a sweet fragrance from the lit incense, floating freely. Phichit and Guang Hong also lie in wait, speaking in hushed tones. It’s easier to pick up the few loose words from the two professors, both rather active in their talk. The lighting of the room dims under their chat and lack of movement, falling from a neon yellow to a solemn orange haze. Leaning against the glossy plastic tables students had been sitting in hours before, JJ relaxes.

                “Say, Yuri, who are these people?”

                “What do you mean?” Ah, that’s right. JJ points to the far end where the trio sits, slowly tracing a curve from them to Phichit and Guang Hong, to Otabek and Mila, then to themselves.

                “What are we doing here? I’ve been in the EAT class for a few weeks now and this is the first time I’ve been invited to, whatever this is. No one here is from Liberty but me,” and possibly once Leo, “and you’re not even in EAT.”

                “This isn’t an EAT class.” Yuri responds, staring over JJ’s shoulders. “Having it be an EAT or NOT class thing is stupid. Look, who do you think is the strongest pair in school?”

                Strongest? JJ would like to say it’s Yuri and himself, but the thought of a barely present partnership being the top in a school as historical and powerful as Death City Academy is laughable. It’d be easy to point to the trio at the end—meisters that could not only use two weapons at once but actually manage them tended to have a very durable soul, and their weapons capabilities would kick up their ultimate power by quite a bit. Then again, Yuri did say pair instead of partnership. Given the awkward tension between Guang Hong and Phichit, and JJ’s overall lack of knowing people in the school, there’s really only one stunning pair he can name.

                “Otabek and Mila?”

                Yuri’s brows rise, eyes widening. Huh, so he was right.

                “Yeah, how’d you know?” Disbelief colors the other’s voice. JJ chuckles, glancing around the room. Otabek and Mila are staring over the pot, apprehension still visible but clearly settled. Professor Katsuki watches with a little distance, quiet.

                “I don’t know many people to begin with,” JJ laughs, humming as he looks over the others. “Given that I was asking about this, er, afterschool activity, I figured they should be in this room. You said pair so the trio was out, and Otabek and Mila were the first people to come to mind.” There was something special about their affection, traced in bitterness and lost battles, ribbons braided tight around the two. Whereas JJ could see him and Yuri fighting in the time to come, Otabek and Mila looked like their fights have been worn out.

                They were combined in the seeking of peace.

                “Lucky guess,” Yuri replies. “Yeah, this is it. Mila and Beka are number one, number two is Emil and his harem,” JJ chuckles at the disgust coloring Yuri’s words, the latter quite obviously frustrated with someone from the trio, “then Phichit and Guang Hong.” Makes sense.

                “And us?”

                “The strongest meister and weapon, yet to come together.” JJ and Yuri startle, shoulders bumping together as they look upward for professor Katsuki’s amusement. He chuckles, adjusting his glasses before kneeling down again as with Otabek and Mila. A glance out of the corner of JJ’s eyes affirm his suspicions—they’re finger deep into the pot.

                “You scar—You’re too quiet, piggy!” JJ gawks at Yuri’s name for Katsuki, but the professor simply shrugs it off, gesturing at the center bowl. The liquid continues to swirl despite no attempts to move it, a slow, endless pattern.

                “What do you mean?” Strongest, or yet to come together? JJ pauses mid-question as the two look his way. Both are… not answers that he wants right now. “No, never mind.”

                “Okay,” professor Katsuki nods, focusing back on the bowl. “What we’re going to have you two do is put your hands in the water. It’s going to be hard, since it’s going to try to just suck up your soul wavelengths, but don’t give up! When you reach the bottom of the jug, bring up your hands to connect with your partner. If you can do that,” he taps the rim on the pot, “you’ll be able to win any battle.”

                “Okay,” Yuri nods, already shuffling into place with his hands hovering. JJ follows his lead, his eyes on professor. Otabek and Mila didn’t get that quick an explanation.

                “Whenever you two are ready.” No, it’s not right. Yuri’s fingers are barely hovering the surface as JJ brings his hands closer, down, down, not quite there yet. It’s not right.

                “What are you doing? Hurry up.” Yuri snaps and JJ’s fingers finally reach his, pushing, downward, down, down

                Down into the murky depths.

                _It burns_.

                “Ow! Wha—at the hell, piggy?” Yuri startles, ripping their fingers out from the liquid immediately. The milky thing falls back into the pot with a plop, not a single drop clinging to their finger. “What was that?”

                “What did you feel?” Those words aren’t curious; they’re knowing. Yuri knows it too, judging from the grinding from his teeth. He turns his glare to JJ, hands back to hovering over the liquid.

                “Hurry up, we’re doing it this time.” Hesitation prickles through Yuri’s demand, and JJ is equally apprehensive when his fingers linger in place. He has a horribly terrible feeling about this.

                “Go.” Their hands plunge in. The liquid has a different give this time, more viscous, circling their hands like a predator toying with their prey. It’s not hot.

                It’s freezing.

                “What the fuck,” Yuri hisses. His teeth are grit tight, his fingers surely straining to touch down deeper, but the liquid barely rises past his knuckles. JJ is no better, still skimming the liquid as it swirls around; the milky surface moves, undisturbed, but every ripple feels like a spike in his hands.

                “How are classes?” Professor Katsuki asks. Both JJ and Yuri jolt; their hands not leaving the pot. Professor isn’t laughing, smirking, or the slightest bit devious in his expression.

                “How have you two been doing?” JJ feels a trembling warning in those words.

                “Fine,” Yuri spits, gritting his teeth as his shoulders heave forward, hands shaking in their force into the liquid. JJ follows suite, eyes on his partner as professor stares, his presence crawling closer.

                “And you, JJ?”

                “Fine.” What’s the right answer? Or is there even one? The liquid pulls on his hand, gripping tight and refusing to release, but every slow struggle of his fingers to push in is met with a bitter, chilling cold.

                His teeth grind against each other.

                “Exams are coming up soon. All students are trying to get in extra practice, so missions have been getting claimed as soon as their posted. Have you two been experiencing any struggles?”

                “No.” Yuri’s words are venomous, every bit as biting as the liquid is against JJ’s hands. It is almost funny, except every hair on JJ’s body feels like it’s standing, shaky, a slow horrifying sensation curling in the pit of his stomach.

                “That’s good. JJ, what about you?”

                “No.” He knows this cold.

                “Okay. Just in case, we’ve taken some liberties with missions planned for the next week. What about exams? I know Professor Feltsman is hosting a few study sessions starting next week for the written portion. They were always helpful when I went.” JJ knows this slow, swirling sensation. His fingers freeze, the watery liquid clinging with sudden strength, clawing at the space where his nail meets his finger.

                “I’ll go,” JJ answers, and his fingers slip in further, deeper, deeper, the coldness echoing in his bones. “I’ve never had a written exam before, so it’d be good to prepare.”

                “What?” JJ’s eyes snap upward to Yuri, his words directed not at professor Katsuki but him. “Why are you wasting your time for that?”

                “That? You mean the written exams?” It’s odd, how light his tongue feels. The liquid isn’t quite so cold anymore, something more temperate now, strangely easy to claw into.

                “Obviously. Why would you waste time for that when the practical is more important?” The biting just isn’t from the pot. Professor Katsuki watches as JJ feels his lips tremble, words threatening to spill outward. He won’t say such cruel things.

                “Why does it matter to you?” The words don’t sound like his. The sound after them, light, horrified, doesn’t sound like him either.

                “Why the hell wouldn’t it matter to me? If you fail the practical then we both fail, dumbass!” The words were his. Yuri’s towering now, a force spiraling upward with fury, tangling JJ’s words. It’s weird, so, so weird. His mouth opens.

                “It’s not me that needs to worry about failing.”

                The words are out in the air before he can snap his jaws shut. JJ stares, horror flashing over his face, as Yuri’s gaze crumples into something not furious. A familiar weight settles into his chest, heavy, and he doesn’t want it.

                “You’ve been here five years now,” why can’t they stop? Every word JJ feels is a stab to himself, but they keep flying, slinging; holes piercing into his skin, “and you’re still in NOT? Even without a partner, I’ve never met a meister with a stronger soul wavelength. Maybe it’s not your wavelength that’s the problem; maybe it’s _you_.” JJ hates himself.

                “What the fuck.” He knows, he knows; the apologizes don’t come out. His throat feels numb, a prickling slug poisoning every syllable.

                “What the shitty fuck.” There’s a knot suddenly, dry, sandy, disgusting and JJ knows, he knows, please, this is horrible and the milky liquid just lets him sink in deeper, deeper, trapped in the dense bottom.

                “Yuri, I—”

                “Don’t you fucking speak.” It’s getting louder. Their words, everyone’s words, are rising. Once a bare flicker, now a low hum. Professor Katsuki is gone. JJ can’t see him.

                He can’t see anyone but the anger from the person in front.

                “Don’t tell me what to do.” Stop, stop. These aren’t his words. This isn’t what he wants.

                “You’ll do whatever I tell you to do! That’s what a weapon does! That’s all a shitty weapon like you is good for!” Sinking into the cold, the bitter worms squirming in his blood, biting, attacking, chewing at his arteries, chilling his lungs.

                “Shut up! You should be grateful I ever looked your way!” Yuri is. He knows that, he knows, he knows, he doesn’t want to hear the answer, he can’t do this.

                “I would rather a street rat than you! You’re only in EAT out of pity! You’re only with me out of pity! The only reason anyone would have to be with you is out of pity!” He hates this. He wants to go, run, away.

                “Really? Because ironically, I only came your way out of pity! Poor Yuri Plisetsky, so young, once so full of life.” Why is he laughing? Why are the words coming out a cry? “Abandoned because no one wanted him! No one would be his partner! I’m here and you’d stay because there’s nowhere else for you to go!”

                “Fuck you! I’m the one pitiful? I’m the one alone? Because I’d much rather be that than be you!”

                “What’s possibly worse than you?” The low hum is gone. It’s so far gone, a distant memory blown away in the blizzard that is this talk. It’s not an argument, not a fight, it’s something artificial, horrible, a crinkling pressure against every bit of will he has and he’s just lazing there, crushed.

                “I’d much rather be abandoned than abandon someone who needs me.” Rising voices, rising anger, fury and betrayal and year old grudges, against oneself and against another, swirls in the milky liquid bowl.

                “I’d never do that!” Painful accusations.

                “What about Isabella?”

                He’s drowning in the cold.

                “What,” he’s gasping, fighting to survive, clawing against the dense waves, swirling, swirling, looking for an exit but he’s forgotten what’s up and what’s down.

                “Oh, have you already forgotten? That hero of yours, reaching in for the wonderful Mr. Leroy? The glorious, beloved child of a Death Scythe? Isabella Yang, isn’t she? A hero, who used every weapon. A heart opens for every single one of them. Even you.”

                “What.”

                So this is what it’s like to be at the receiving end of his blows. This is what mama always said never to do. A hand lingering too long, painful, cold, burning, icy, warm. Dangerous, too dangerous, for human life.

                “Running to Death City, starting again? How pitiful.” He can’t do this.

                “Abandoning Isabella.” He can’t do this.

                JJ’s standing. He’s up, up on his feet, eyes wild and blurry. The bowl is knocked over, not a single stream pouring out and his hands are still cold, raw, patches of hurt and reopened wounds, small slits cutting along his arm upward, higher, higher, two frail hands against his neck, tight, tighter, and he can’t breathe, he needs help, someone, someone, he can’t _breathe._

                The room falls silent to the sound of their bowl crashing against the floor.

“I never told you about Isabella.”

                He can’t do this.

                He can feel his face scrunching up, that familiar burn against his eyes. No, he’s come this far. His jaw shakes, his nose itches, his cheeks hurt and he can’t, he won’t.

                JJ turns and leaves. His footsteps are light, quiet, like droplets against water, soft padding. The door shuts softly behind him.

-

                Isabella.

                Soft black hair, dangling past her chin, sparkling blue eyes and a soft sweet voice. Long, fragile fingers, a thin red lip, pretty words.

                Yuri.

                Soft blonde hair, dangling above his chin, sparkling green eyes and a hard low voice. Long, strong fingers, a thin pink lip, harsh words.

-

                JJ heaves.

                He breathes.

-

                JJ doesn’t know whether to expect Yuri in class or not as he walks up the steps. He wouldn’t be able to blame Yuri for not coming when his body feels so heavy itself, low, slow step by step. Everything burns, heavy, hot. He makes it to the door.

                He opens the door, quiet, soft.

                Yuri is in his chair.

                “It was the incense.” Mila’s voice isn’t harsh, yet it’s heavy. Otabek lingers behind, his lips pinched. It’s the first time that JJ’s seen the trio in class, their gazes sharp, arms crossed. Sara has her hips cocked, eyes shadowing along the line of the table. Michele isn’t looking anywhere, just a single, blank stare.

                “Incense?” Leo’s here and Phichit and Guang Hong aren’t.

                “After class practice,” it’s the first that JJ’s heard the scruffy blonde speak up close, and he isn’t expecting the voice to be so strong. “Stuff happened. I blame drugs.”

                Incense isn’t drugs.

                “They’re not drugs. It’s an old technique for health and atmosphere. Just, not exactly this time.” Otabek corrects, his words quieting with every syllable until it’s a low murmur.

                “I chased professor Katsuki about it. We did an exercise to test our strength, if we could hold together while our soul wavelengths disconnected. Obviously, we didn’t pass,” Mila’s words are gritted, little bumpy ridges. The thought of her chasing their teacher could almost be funny if the rest of her sentence couldn’t eat up the room.

                A test.

                “Hello, everyone! Today we’ve got yet another very important lesson!” Professor Nikiforov flings open the very door professor Katsuki had entered the day before, smile bright, sunny. His eyes flicker across the room, looking, locking onto the cluster of students around one particular desk. His smile lowers.

                “To your seats, everyone!” They’re quiet as they disband, a lonely little sound of feet tottering away.

                Yuri has his notebook out, his eyes sharp, his hands steady. JJ traces his form, his tense shoulders, the line of his arm, the curve of his back. He sees the stray line of his hair, falling forward, brushing along his cheek, the flat line of pale pink.

                The words he shouldn’t have said.

                “Yuri, I’m sor—”

                Isabella.

                His lips slam shut, tight, locked. Yuri looks his way, something distant and odd in his expression, and he opens his mouth.

                “JJ.”

                “Open your notebooks, everyone! Today we’re doing Edwardian’s study of a weaponry physics!” Class has started. The bell rings. The sound of rustling papers, rolling pens and pencils, scraping chairs fill up the room. The air is clean, free, incoming a cool breeze from the windows.

                At the end of class, he packs up before Yuri can, and quietly walks out the door.

-

                JJ had been sixteen when the incident happened.

                They were supposed to be fighting a corrupted human soul. It was meant to be an easy kill—just another crazy unit in the city. Isabella had been there. Every word she spoke had a shiny light to it, as though writing them down on paper would just result in them floating off the page.

                Then it wasn’t. The corrupted soul had consumed too many innocent lives, eaten too many pure human souls. It had evolved, stronger, harder, an opponent ten times more dangerous.

                Some say that it was planned to kill them, in one fellow swoop.

                The pain had been excruciating. He remembers screaming, voice gone hoarse as he clutched to his arm, flesh ripped cleanly off from the monster’s bite. It was a necessary sacrifice for them, his arm turned back human and the rest still in staff form, just enough for Isabella to make a final strike, smashing through the monster’s skull.

                It was then that his definition of weapon changed.

                _It’s your fault that she’s like this_.

                Three years later, and it’s all the same.

-

                JJ would have thought that they’d last at least ten missions before returning to the awkward silence, but at the very least, it’s not Yuri who’s the cause of it this time.

                Well, that might not be an improvement.

                “Yuri, are they nearby?” It’s strange, how such familiar words grow heavy on the tongue. There’s no choice though—if they don’t finish this mission, then they’d really be failing both professor Nikiforov and Katsuki, and JJ has no intentions for that.

                “Yes. Let’s move to the left,” Yuri’s words feel stranger. They’re not steely, per se, but they’re hidden, harsh. He’s responding with empty words.

                JJ isn’t certain whether to be angry or thankful.

                They shuffle around, dodging street corners and broken tiles on rooftops, skirting the edges of the windowsills and jumping from fence to fence. Yuri points and JJ follows, eyes on the flickering traces of Yuri’s blonde hair against the dark sky.

                _“My hair is kind of long, right? This way, you can follow me when we’re working.”_

                No.

                “Is it here?” JJ asks, feet tapping against the sidewalk. This way is better, doing their jobs, working together in silence. Better than fighting, than boiling and freezing. This way, hunting down their prey, is better.

                “Almost. You should turn now,” Yuri suggests.

                _That’s what a weapon does._

                “Sure,” JJ nods. He sighs, shifting, folding inward to himself. That little space of time between human flesh and gold, forming and reforming, melting away. There’s no such thing as emotions for a weapon, a hunk of metal and danger and marred by blood. Jean-Jacques floats away, upward, untouchable as his body settles in, smaller, thinner, lighter.

                Yuri’s hand curls around him.

                And promptly drops him.

                “Yuri!” It doesn’t hurt to be dropped, but JJ can’t help the tone milking into his words. Dirt scrapes along the rod of the staff, browning the precise ridges and gemstones divvying up the line. “What was that for?”

                “You’re heavy.”

                Astonishment, confusion, and a harsh familiarity fill Yuri’s words. JJ looks upward, about as much as he can while swirling in the abyss of inside a weapon, eyes widening as the words settle.

                He’s heavy?

                “I—you mean I put on weight?” That doesn’t make any sense. He would have to jump up several sizes to even have an effect on his weapon form.

                “No, you’re heavy. Just heavy, like real gold.” That’s impossible. Yuri, even on their first mission, had no trouble picking him up. No one, experimenters and display watchers, ever had a problem with JJ in their gloved hands, careful to not leave a single mark on his form. Curious fingers, delicate, dangerous, had always pinched at him.

                He’s never been heavy.

                “We don’t have time for this. It’s coming closer, so loosen up,” Yuri directs. That’s right; they’re on a mission, they don’t have time for JJ’s shenanigans. He just needs to loosen up. Become lighter.

                As if he knows how.

                Think light, breathe lightly, imagine light things. Balloons rising up into the air. Cats leaping from the table to the wall. A beautiful butterfly fluttering its wings.

                “I’m picking you up.” Yuri’s fingers close around him again. Normally, they’re so small, fragile little sticks. In weapon form, they feel huge, encompassing, encircling him in his entirety.

                Yuri picks up him, and flings him upward.

                “Yuri?” JJ shrieks, unsure if he should turn or not. Regardless, he’s back in Yuri’s hand in a second, suddenly clenched tight and heart hammering, a rough itch against his skin. No, that’s not an itch. It’s Yuri’s hands, trembling, JJ in his grasp.

                “You’re light now,” Yuri says those empty words. JJ sputters, because what is there to say? Heavy? Light? What should he think of then, form himself into, in Yuri’s hands?

                There’s a sound of a hand scraping against the brick wall. Yuri turns, eyes livid to the sight of the creature. It’s a grinning thing, a full moon with a strange haircut, thickly braided dreads tied outward and pointing like the sun. It’s inhumane, surely, with its stumpy legs and body and that huge, grinning face.

                JJ recoils in disgust.

                Yuri’s hand suddenly lowers.

                “Don’t! What are you doing?” Yuri hisses, voice low and eyes steady on the corrupted soul sliding their way. Its eyes are vertical, wide, unblinking, weird red painted irises on the blackened face. “JJ, you’re getting heavy again!” No.

                He doesn’t mean to.

                Yuri startles as JJ breathes, and then he’s being raised again, high, higher, clutched firmly to Yuri’s chest in wait. The creature lumbers along the wall, unseeing yet eyes wide, tracking. Its feet barely move with every step, just a slow shuffle along the side.

                Then the eyes blink.

                And it _flings_ itself off the wall their way.

                “Yuri!” JJ screams, warning, but Yuri’s already swinging back, focused, sharp, that bright flare of power flowing through as he bashes down onto the black sunny thing. The mask cracks, a long thin line across the eye, splitting into little ones that go across, across, breaking and shattering.

                The creature wobbles, toddling backwards and Yuri follows, insistent, form straight and eyes hard.

                “Swinging.” JJ’s up again, raised, and then down, bashing hard, harder, splintering the masked face as it crinkles and collapses to the dirty street. Yuri doesn’t gasp, doesn’t choke, but he wheezes with every movement, a long, low clash against the infected thing.

                The mask falls apart.

                The monster behind it leaps upward, mouth wide as its face, teeth rotten and sharp and open, lunging, right at Yuri’s way.

                “Shit!”

                It’s a play-by-play of their first. The awkward silence, the mishandling, the sudden attack. Except Yuri had held him close, swung him harder, faster, easier. Yuri had channeled that spirit into him, channeled his soul wavelength, spoke to him about tragedies and celebrations and the feeling of melting, leaking dreams between small fingers and the sad touch of snow.

                It’s a play-by-play except it’s not JJ that’s reaching.

                “Shit.” He agrees.

                The fire comes as easily as the ice, burning. It’s odd—like this, he doesn’t feel a thing but the wavelength flowing through his body. It circles around the staff, glowing, glittering gemstones setting alight under the crown, sharp, focused, center. Yuri’s there, holding him, heavy, light, a single strong push and JJ lets himself ride the wave, be taken by the other, encircled into a cage.

                The fire comes swirling out of him, that familiar burning sensation.

                It tears the creature into two, three, four burning chunks that fall to the floor.

                Yuri lets go. JJ falls.

                “Ah, ow, fuck!” It’s not instinct driving the words from JJ. It’s Yuri’s voice, crying out, and JJ’s turning back in an instant. The pang of a staff against the floor is replaced by a stomp. Yuri’s eyes widen as JJ comes in, frantic.

                “What happened?” JJ asks. His eyes fall on Yuri’s hands tightening, hiding, but it’s too late. Red mars Yuri’s skin. Red and the barely-there scent of burned skin.

                “Nothing.”

                Liar. JJ opens his mouth to reply, but then Yuri’s pointing at the fallen body. A soul is floating upward, bobbing in the air, a teal colored soul with a wide hole in it. JJ turns back to Yuri, and the other is walking away, searching the walls for a familiar panel of glass.

                A window to a world away.

                JJ reaches out a hand and takes the soul. It squirms in his hands and he opens his mouth wide, wide, stuffing it in. Slimy, odd, an empty taste.

                Another soul, another step closer to a Death Scythe.

                Yuri’s burns.

                _It’s your fault that she’s like this_.

                Fuck. Fuck.

-

                Yuri walks him back in silence. His hands are stuffed in his pockets and JJ can’t bring himself to ask what he already knows. The words “sorry” flashes by and he thinks of opening his mouth.

                Frail, lithe fingers.

                His mouth stays shut.

-

                Yuri’s hands are bandaged the next day.

                Clumsily wrapped, gauze overflowing and soaking into the white strips taped sloppily over his fingers, and impossible to write well with. He speaks to Otabek at the beginning of class, casual words, casual tone. JJ pretends he doesn’t hear his name.

                Professor Katsuki teaches their morning class that day, speaking not of equations but of connections, the history of famous Death Scythes and their meisters, their effect on the advancement of humankind as a whole. He asks and answers more questions than professor Nikiforov could probably think up, and their class is entranced.

                Yuri always falls asleep in professor Nikiforov’s lectures.

                He barely blinks in Katsuki’s, in taking every word.

                It’s the first outside of missions that JJ’s seen him so focused. His hands, awkward, painful, clench the pen writing loopy letters and long lines, longer than professor Nikiforov’s lectures. Jotting down little details, words, stories in every word. When he winces at the movement of writing a semicolon, JJ flinches.

                Yuri glances his way, just once.

                JJ smiles in turn.

-

                It’s normal for a student to want to exit a class as soon as possible. Lecture halls are long, boring, and outside with friends is much more entertaining. The time between classes are short, but they are the loudest, the most memorable part of the day. During the last class, classmates would almost run out of the room.

                Of course JJ is a little hasty when he’s putting away his supplies.

                “Where are you going?” Yuri’s hand taps against his own, the blonde gazing at him as he slowly puts away his own texts. JJ stills, notebook in hand and other pulling open his bag, mind whirring.

                “Home, of course. We don’t have a mission, right?” He’s not rushing for any particular reason. It’s just that it’s such a nice day out and it would be wasted stuck in the dusty hall congested with wild students.

                “No, we don’t.” That’s good then. JJ stuffs his last notebook into the bag’s large pocket, tightening the elastic at the top and flipping the top flap over. He secures the buckle with familiar ease, fingers pinching at the leather, as Yuri speaks again. “You didn’t wait last class.”

                JJ’s fingers freeze.

                “Oh,” that’s right. In the short while that Yuri had come into the EAT class, JJ had taken to waiting for the other. Yuri was a strangely slow packer, often stopping to speak to the professors before leaving. In the meanwhile, JJ had leant against the outside wall, greeting passing friends until a familiar bob of shiny blonde hair would meet him.

                “Are you in a rush today?”

                “No,” JJ smiles, pleasant, his hand pulling away from the buckle. “Shall we walk home together, Yuri?”

                “Sure.” That’s fine. Warm weather is always better appreciated with more people after all. No need to worry about a thing.

                The sun is bright out, glaring overhead at the students with a dramatic laugh. No matter how many times JJ sees it, the fact that Death City has a speaking moon and sun is creepy. Well, the moon is far creepier considering it occasionally looks like it’s hacking up blood.

                Up high overlooking the thousand stair staircase to Death City Academy, the winds bat relentlessly at the stone and marble steps. For a normal human, it would probably be exhausting to climb. Seeing the steps from below was a punch to JJ in his arrival to the school; now he can’t see it as anything but a warm up exercise featuring a beautiful landscape of Death City.

                Walking alone, that is.

                Here, with Yuri by his side, the view is drastically different.

                “Death City’s warm weather sure lasts a while, huh? In Liberty City we would have been covered by snow a long time ago!” JJ speaks. The sun cackles, jolly, at his words. At least he hopes so.

                “It doesn’t snow much in Death City,” Yuri replies. He starts down the staircase before JJ, shoes clacking against the stone.

                “Really? That’s weird. It snows all the time in Liberty, it’s so pretty,” JJ sighs. While he hadn’t grown up in Liberty, he had spent nearly half his lifetime in the city. It would be hard to imagine a new life without those wild blizzards.

                Yuri doesn’t reply, his steps constant in his descent. JJ follows, left foot coming down a bit faster than his right, a little rhythm for himself. It’s a game they played once, a long time ago, when he was little and learning. They formed a circle and stepped to the music, and on every third or so step, the next in line would try transforming.

                It was a fun little thing, until the last one to go couldn’t do it.

                “Aah, fuck! Watch it!” JJ snaps back to reality at the sound of Yuri’s cursing. A female student rolls her eyes at him, her partner scoffing and storming away with her. But JJ has no time to look after them.

                Yuri’s clutching his bandaged hand in pain, face wincing.

                The burned spot.

                “Shit. Some people have no fucking awareness,” Yuri hisses, cradling his injured hand close to his chest. Then he’s off again, walking that slow, simply walk. A step, then another, wobbly and strange with no particular rhythm.

                JJ watches.

                “What, are you just going to stare at me all day?”

                No.

                “No,” JJ rolls his eyes, descending after Yuri. He opens his mouth, ready to add on something, but he doesn’t. So it lingers, jaw slightly open, before he snaps it shut.

                This is okay, isn’t it? Here he can at least provide company for the other. His eyes wander from building top to building top, sparkling chrome against the sun’s shine, but inevitably returns to the cradled hand clutched close to Yuri’s chest.

                If he asked, would Yuri give him his hand?

                JJ could do something, anything. He could just go and think, pause, hold it and maybe he couldn’t heal it, but couldn’t he help?

                Right?

                “Say something, idiot,” Yuri’s words are low, gravelly against the bright sky. JJ feels his lips prick up, settling into that familiar curved shape as always.

                “I’ll talk about whatever you want to talk about, Yuri!” That’s right. He’s here to help Yuri. It’s his fault for the burn, and he’ll remedy that by making it better.

                “Really?” Of course.

                “Yep!”

                “Then explain why you’re not talking to me about anything.”

                JJ doesn’t falter. His smile stays in place, his right foot a little slower than his left, and he hums as he walks.

                “Aren’t we talking right now?” It’s unusual for Yuri to take the first move. JJ should applaud him for it; perhaps hanging around him has led to Yuri to develop better social skills? Wow, what a success that could be.

                “You’ve spoken to me about the weather,” Yuri deadpans.

                “It is very good weather,” JJ remarks. If Yuri won’t push it, then he won’t. After all, haven’t they come so far without speaking? All Yuri has to do is keep walking, and they’ll be fine. They’ll be okay! Time will pass and wounds will heal and everything will be okay.

                “Why do you keep staring at my hand?” Uncharted territory.

                “Maybe I want to kiss it?” JJ counters.

                “Why did you run away from me?”

                “I never did? Yuri, I want to be around you forever!” Come on, come on. They don’t have to do this.

                “Were you ever going to tell me about Isabella?” Oh. That does cause JJ to falter. His heel clacks noisily against the step, skidding, and Yuri’s hands are out, open, just at the noise. But JJ collects himself, arch tapping at the next step, back tilted, and he’s here, centimeters away from Yuri’s embrace, the other’s eyes wide and mouth hung open.

                JJ laughs.

                “What the hell? Be careful!” Yuri’s flustered face is so cute, really. It’s hard to see when he’s laughing, unfocused, but it’s better to see Yuri through blurry eyes then clear ones.

                If JJ doesn’t laugh, he might cry.

                “Sorry, sorry.” He’s not. The mood’s successfully ruined, broken into little sharps and pieces that he has no intention of picking up. Little cracks that burn upward, familiar nails tearing into his skin, and when Yuri stares at him he wonders if his smile looks all that real.

                “Sorry, Yuri.”

                He really is.

-

                In the seven years JJ attended Liberty City Academy, he had never missed a day of school except when barred from going one time in his fourth year when he had gotten the flu.

                _Hey. Do you want to go shopping with me today? 6(^v^)9_

                Honestly, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. What JJ should probably do is go to school, take notes, study for exams and get around to finally actually speaking to Yuri. What JJ should probably do is ask how, why Yuri knows about Isabella, if it’s going to break them up because it’s better to know now than later, and answer Yuri’s questions. What JJ should probably do is take Yuri’s hands into his own, hold them close and think of cold.

                _Yeah. Can I bring someone too?_

                He smiles. Leo always comes through.

                _Sure! X0x the more the merrier!!_

-

                JJ doesn’t expect Leo to bring either Guang Hong or Phichit. He’s right in that.

                He does expect Leo to bring someone he would at least recognize. The black haired boy in front of him, long side-swept bangs and harsh, dark almost-black eyes, isn’t someone JJ knows.

                “Leo! Who’s your friend?” JJ waves from the front of the station. Death City is so large, filled with numerous alleyways and prime battle locations; it’s subway station is somehow insanely organized. JJ’s never been so taken to a train station as this one.

                “Morning, JJ! Let me introduce Seung Gil Lee. He’s two years our senior and a weapon from South Korea,” Leo greets, gesturing to his friend. The Korean nods in greeting.

                “What is this, a weapon party? Nice to meet you, Seung!” JJ beams. Leo laughs at the comment; Seung Gil remains quiet, his eyes on JJ unmoving. It’s near unnerving, but JJ isn’t going to let anyone stop him from enjoying an impromptu day off.

                “Yes, yes, lament our lack of meisters. Where are we going?” Leo looks around. JJ had sent him a location downtown Death City, in between the financial district and the fashion one, and he has a distinct feeling that JJ is going to be taking the day to participate in shopping therapy over actual conversation.

                “Everywhere,” JJ grins. He has every intention of shopping until he drops today and obtaining an entire new wardrobe of winter and late fall classics. Leo sighs and Seung Gil raises an eyebrow; that’s just about when JJ realizes that today is going to be a wonderful, wonderful day.

                It turns out that Seung Gil has a great body and absolutely no fashion sense, Leo has all but forgotten how to manage his budget and JJ already knew that he had no restraint for warm, slim-fitting and fashionable coats but even he doesn’t want to take a glance at his account number by the time lunch rolls around. They’re all carrying bags by then, JJ lumbering two huge square totes per arm, and several smaller ones stuffed into the big ones. Seung Gil carries the least, though from his expression even he’s taken back by how Leo and JJ had pushed him into purchasing two bags of goods.

                “Phew, that was so fun! My wallet may well be on fire, but I’m so ready for winter now!” What can he say? Buying things makes JJ giddy, and good food works just as well. Seung Gil had pointed to this restaurant, a quaint noodle and crepe joint and they had all but jumped at the opportunity. It was good they entered when they had—in the short while they’ve been sitting, a line had been steadily forming at the door.

                “What happened to restraint? I’m fairly certain neither of us need new clothes,” Leo groans, but he’s smiling as well. Seung Gil nods, still quiet despite the day they spent together. Still, JJ is rather proud to point out that he’s seen quite a few smiles crossing the Korean’s lips as well.

                “Should have stuck to food purchases,” Seung Gil smirks. While their senior had been rather unimpressed with their fawning over random items (“Leo there is a bobble head of my mom, do I buy enough for everyone in my family or just one?”), he had been admittedly overspent on fancy treats, including chocolates, strange spices and an abundance of cubed candies that he had kindly broken open and shared with Leo and JJ. It was good he opened them when he did—some chocolates were melty and JJ had focused hard on them to reform their shape.

                “No regrets, I’ll just hit up more sweet stores after lunch,” JJ smirks, elicting more moans from his friend. Leo rolled his eyes dramatically, peering at JJ over his menu.

                “We’re not talking about more shopping until I eat and get re-energized. I swear JJ, your stamina is insane,” Leo sighs, pouring over his menu. “JJ, do you want to give me some of your calamari? I’m not feeling a full portion.”

                “Wow, deciding for me? Rude, Leo, absolutely terribly rude. Yeah, take my octopi,” JJ smirks as Leo fakes an offended look. Seung Gil peers over his menu with interest and by the time the waiter arrives they’re all bantering, comparing avocadoes and broccoli, arguing about whether tomatoes should be fruit and how JJ should not order a salad.

                This is what JJ needed. A day out, away, being a person and not a weapon. Here with an old friend and making a new one, hanging out without the threat of an attack, being at peace.

                “Are you splitting with Yuri then?”

                What?

                “What?” JJ feels his mouth freeze, his hand mid-air with a string of spaghetti slowly sliding off, curdling in his plate of carbonara. It lands with a dull squish against the split egg.

                “Oh,” Leo looks regretful, awkwardly darting his eyes from JJ to Seung Gil and back, “I just thought, um. I thought something happened. You never skipped class in Liberty City.”

                “I just wanted a day off,” JJ smiles, spinning his fork in the noodles aimlessly. Somehow, his appetite had all but disappeared.

                “Ah,” Leo hums. But his eyes don’t stop their awkward shifting and Seung Gil straightens, glancing at JJ curiously. He takes another bite of his noodles, crunchy bacon and gooey egg, and it tastes like souls—empty.

                He didn’t come to talk about Yuri, much less potentially leaving the other. Sure, they weren’t in the best of states right now; but splitting? JJ and Leo were friends for years, Leo should know just how much JJ wanted a partner, a real, truly caring partner. Why would he imply JJ would split from Yuri over something as simple as a fight?

                Wait.

                “Wait,” that’s not right. It would explain a lot of things, surely, but they were getting along so well before. Leo wouldn’t, he didn’t, JJ isn’t sure. “Leo, did you split with Guang Hong and Phichit?”

                He couldn’t.

                The American boy smiles.

                He could.

                “I was never with them to begin with. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking? Going in on a meister with a weapon already, and they’re dating too! Jeez, like I’m not in a drama, why would I ever do that?” Leo’s laughing. His eyebrows are furrowed, a wrinkle set deep and his nose crinkles as he laughs, little soft hiccupping chuckles. It’s strikingly familiar and JJ doesn’t know who to blame.

                Whom of the two decided to laugh than to cry?

                “That’s ridiculous! Leo, I don’t know what they said, but they’re obviously fighting about this. Maybe they do want you, but they’re just uncertain. Shouldn’t you be taking this time to swoop in and prove to them how good you are?” He is good, JJ knows that. Leo’s amazing, fantastic, maybe not the strongest weapon but a solid one. The American boy turns into a dagger, a thin, frightening sharp curved blade that digs in without mercy. He’s flashy, carved in with intricate sayings and symbols, a single jewel set into the handle helm. Leo is as beautiful as he is dangerous.

                He shouldn’t be alone.

                “You should never force yourself into a relationship.” JJ turns to Seung Gil, unsure, confused, but the Korean boy gives only a dull tone as he cuts into another piece of steak.

                “Exactly! I want a partner that will want me, not someone to fight with all the time. And intruding into a couple? Don’t you think that’s wrong?” Leo is instant, a fast counter to back up Seung Gil’s words. JJ glances between them once, twice, and he’s not sure whether to be furious or just sad when it clicks.

                “You’re an independent weapon.” Seung Gil nods, eyes still on his plate as he forks a sliver of caramelized onions.

                “Leo asked for me. There’s not many of us in this school, and he came to ask for advice. I told him my personal opinions, and then he decided what he wanted to do,” Seung Gil explained. Advice? JJ wants to call it pressure, pushing, but the entire day Seung Gil had lingered more than lead. He had been attentive, sure, taking care to help carry their purchases and pointing out things that might interest his juniors. He had never pushed.

                “Why?” Still, JJ doesn’t know.

                “Because it wasn’t right. Just because I wanted a meister doesn’t mean Guang Hong should just give up his!” He knows, he knows. That’s not the reason.

                “No one needed to give up anyone. You saw that Emil had two weapons. It’s uncommon, sure, but no one has to give up anything.” JJ needs to speak calmly, rationally. He doesn’t want to push. He doesn’t want to force Leo into anything.

                “Hah,” Leo’s scoff is bitter, more hurt than hurtful. “As if. There’s no room for me with Phichit and Guang Hong. Pushing in will just make things worse.” Maybe, maybe JJ would accept that a week before. Maybe that excuse would have slid just fine.

                Guang Hong had asked about three partners.

                “There is room. You know there is! Why don’t you take the incentive? Why don’t you push?” Seung Gil opens his mouth to object, reject, JJ doesn’t care. Maybe he needs to push. Maybe he needs to shove. “Leo, I don’t care about what you should do! What do you want to do?”

                “Obviously I want to be with them!” Leo’s voice is loud, rebounding around the room and people are looking, curious, wondering, glancing over their way and he’s so frustrated, annoyed, regretful. “But I can’t! Isn’t that why you’re here?”

                No.

                “No,” JJ says, because it’s not. He’s not here because he can’t be with Yuri. He’s not here because he’s going to split with Yuri. He’s not here because he’s been put away.

                He’s here because he knows that he will not leave Yuri’s side, and that’s terrifying.

                “I could never leave my partner.”

                Leo grits his teeth, the grind rather sorrowful. He doesn’t slam the table, kick the chair, flip a plate. Leo stands up, slow, careful, slides in his chair and places his fork and knife on opposite sides of the plate. He looks at JJ, then Seung Gil, and walks out the door.

                “Leo!”

                “Sit down,” Seung Gil commands. JJ glances his way, then Leo’s, at the squared shoulders and retreating steps. Leo never gets mad at JJ. Just quiet, sad.

                He would rather Leo be angry.

                He sits, silent as the people around them murmur, voices low but words catching. There’s at least two mentions of his name, the full “Jean-Jacques Leroy” and he doesn’t move, hands meeting at his lap and face downward, noodles cooled on the plate.

                “I apologize.” That’s not what he’s expecting. JJ startles, shooting his glance at Seung Gil but the other doesn’t look his way, quiet as he eats the small carrots and onions alongside his place.

                “You didn’t do anything wrong,” JJ murmurs, because he didn’t. Seung Gil had just gone along with them. It was him and Leo, pushing, needing, unable to do what they must not because they lacked the skills but because they lacked the resolve.

                “Neither did you,” Seung Gil points out. It feels odd, to have his face read like that. JJ chuckles, somber, empty just to fill the air. He picks up his fork.

                The noodles taste like nothing in his mouth.

                It’s a rather sour end to what was going so well. Unfortunately, that seems to be the recent trend of JJ’s days. They box up the remainder of their meal, neither entirely hungry with the whispers, and JJ pretends he doesn’t notice the glare Seung Gil shoots at a particularly noisy patron whispering about him. The shopping mood evaporated; instead, they walk back to the station, tugging heavy bags in hand including the ones crammed with Leo’s purchases.

                “This is your stop,” Seung Gil remarks as they near the station. JJ looks upward at the chrome finishing, the shiny rounded benches and the large, glossy windows doming over their heads. It’s far too fancy a place for this dangerous city.

                “Aren’t you going to take the train back too?” JJ asks. Students should be living in the school dorms, which are quite a walk from this location, especially given the weight they’re lugging around.

                “No, I like to walk back,” Seung Gil answers. JJ nods, and they’re off again, walking slowly against the flow of businessmen and afterschool students. That’s right—Death City Academy should have let out by now. Then, Yuri would have spent the day without JJ by his side.

                And likewise.

                “I don’t think becoming an independent weapon is a bad thing. It’s something that’s hard to do, something I can’t imagine myself doing, but that doesn’t make it bad,” JJ starts up. Would Yuri be concerned? Would he search the school for him? Or perhaps Yuri had chosen to skip school too, and nothing would be amiss? “I always wanted a meister, and I know Leo did too. That’s why I had to say that.”

                “I know,” Seung Gil replies. JJ blinks, glancing over and the Korean sends him a wry look. “Most people assume weapons just become independent from a fight. It’s not that easy. Anyone could tell that he just needed a break.” There’s a pause, separated by the streetlight changing, and Seung Gil’s words are quick between steps as they walk on the crossing. “Do you still need one?”

                So he had noticed. JJ quirks his lips upward, wondering.

                “No, I’m alright,” there’s a slew of things he should say to Yuri. Apologizes, confessions, explanations. He thinks of Isabella and his heart pangs but that’s a topic that can’t really be avoided at this point, can it?

                “Hey, Seung Gil. If somehow, somewhere, you met a meister who was a totally rude and blunt idiot, with no social skills and pretty bratty, but you could feel a connection to him, would you stay with him?”

                Seung Gil laughs. It’s nice to hear, a small twinkling chuckle against the harsh scratches JJ imagines himself making. His steps slow, watching, waiting, as the Korean boy smirks.

                “It’s about time someone say that to Yuri Plisetsky,” JJ must make some sort of face, because Seung Gil sniggers again, “there isn’t a person in school who doesn’t know at this point. Besides, I’d have to agree. I worked with him once too, a long time ago.”

                It makes sense. Yuri wouldn’t spend his time in Death City Academy researching and doing nothing, after all. Of course he’d have made friends, partners, even temporary.

                “I thought of becoming an independent weapon, once. But I really can’t now.” Fire and ice, clashing, burning. He’s never had someone claw up that cliff, desperate, huffing, panting, to find the top. To survey the world from his side. “It’s quite a shame; don’t you think I’d make a powerful one?”

                “No,” Seung Gil says, pointing to JJ’s hands.

                He hands over Leo’s bags at the front of the station, helping JJ pack the extra parcels and gift wrappings into his oversized totes, slowly working their way through the day’s pickings. They end up with all of their purchases in his four large bags, Seung Gil taking two despite JJ’s insistence.

                “I’m not walking back only to drag myself to your dorm. If you’re going to take the train, exercise a little more,” Seung Gil huffs. JJ smiles, the invitation clear in the other’s words. It’s odd, how relieving someone’s presence could be.

                “Have a safe trip, JJ,” the Korean senior says once more, and then he’s walking away, away where JJ hasn’t been and hasn’t seen. JJ has a lot of fans here, those from Liberty that have known him their entire lives and those in Death City who have only heard of him. He has a few friends, some select number that he carries close. He has one partner; someone he could chase forever.

                “Wait!” Seung Gil stills. “Seung Gil, are we friends?”

                The other smirks, rolling his eyes as his steps start up again.

                “I’m neither your fan nor your meister.” That’s not what he asked. JJ huffs, though he smiles as he walks into the station, cramming the large bags between the doorframe and himself. It’s a struggle to get past the turnstile, but he makes it.

                He’ll make it.

-

                JJ thinks of what kind of things Yuri would like. He’s aware of the blonde’s fondness for all things cat, and his plethora of tastes concerning music and food. So long as his baked goods don’t include spinach it’d be fine. Then again, he could write a song for Yuri. The other would probably laugh it off, though. Perhaps new clothes, from the fine collection of things JJ amassed?

                All his musing ends up useless when he returns to the small single assigned to him from the school, the same building as all the other Liberty City transfers. There on his mailbox is taped a small, tightly wrapped package of baked goods and a single star shaped note inside.

                JJ unlocks the door, drops the bags near the entrance and shoves off his shoes with one land, the other balancing him against the wall. Curiosity gets the best of him, and he cuts the ribbon tying together the shiny bag open, reaching in and tugging out the note. The entire star shaped piece, and there is only one small word neatly printed in the center.

                _Sorry_.

                Honestly. JJ’s been beat out, too slow, number two in their unofficial race. There’s a variety of goodies in the bag, butter cookies and mini chocolate croissants and a biscuit that tastes like potatoes. He savors the first bite, the second, and the third, slowly making his way through.

                Losing tastes delicious.

                JJ can’t find himself minding at all.

-

                Skipping a class, JJ realizes, isn’t actually all that scary.

                It’s coming to a class that’s been skipped that’s terrifying.

                JJ swallows, bending around the corner to the classroom. Either professor Katsuki or Nikiforov will be on their way shortly, and depending on who it is decides whether he should hurry in or not. Nikiforov probably wouldn’t even have noticed.

                Professor Katsuki would probably give him a five-hour lecture.

                “Hurry up, idiot.”

                Oh.

                JJ turns to Yuri, the latter frowning upward at him, hands tugging on his oversized backpack straps. JJ hadn’t been expecting him yet, planning on speaking to the other after the day past.

                He forgot that they would be sitting next to each other in class.

                “Yuri! Hi!” He squeaks out instead of just leaving. Yuri raises an eyebrow, grunting as he walks past into the classroom.

                “Good that you’re better,” the other comments. JJ’s eyes trail after him, roughly making his way up the stairs to their seat, where the usual crowd is already forming. Otabek and Mila are settled in, the redhead girl saying something to fluster the other. There’s Emil and his friends that JJ still doesn’t know all that well. Then, ah.

                Phichit and Guang Hong are there.

                So is Leo.

                JJ locks eyes with his fellow disappearing friend. Leo smiles at him, forgiving, forgived. JJ walks into the room.

                “Took you long enough. I was about to call bets for whether you were going to be gone today too,” Mila greets. JJ feels his eyes roll, Yuri scoffing and calling out.

                “You already saw him on your way in, that’s cheating.” JJ chuckles, sliding behind Yuri’s chair and settling down, shrugging off his bag and jacket. The days are getting cooler, slowly, promising winter on the way.

                Yuri kicks off the desk, the same casual rocking as usual.

                “Yuri,” his foot stills, eyes coming around, “thank you.”

                Yuri looks JJ in the eye. His hair is messy, uncombed, falling over his sharp emerald eyes. His lips curl, tight, and he looks away. He kicks against their desk again, shaking it slightly, and brings up his hand to steady himself. His pinky bumps against JJ.

                “Whatever.” Yuri says, “I’m literally the only one who hasn’t played hooky yet, where’s my reward?” Their conversation starts up again, lively, loud. Professor Katsuki comes through the door, unorganized, his books piled up between his arms and his glasses askew. His eyes search the room, blatant, until they come across their row. Professor smiles, cautious, heavy.

                JJ reaches over to Yuri’s hand, and squeezes. He gets a squeeze back.

                JJ smiles, patient, light.

-

                There’s never time for rest in a training weapon and meister’s life.

                “I like chocolate, and strawberry, and oranges, and, oh, maple! I used to like cupcakes a lot but Otabek’s a total cupcake hog, so I’m pretty over them. Oh! Leo made these like, traditional Christmas cookies once? They were so good. I’m sure you could make them even better though, Yuri!” It’s not that easy to talk when they’re running around, tracking the corrupted human soul. Still, JJ figures it’s better to discuss things now than when the fighting starts.

                That being said, Yuri doesn’t seem to appreciate his conversation.

                “I had leftovers; I’m not going to go out of my way to make you things. Don’t mistake me!” Yuri’s dishonesty is pretty cute in its own way. Ever since the morning, Yuri had stubbornly refused to take responsibility for the mysterious wrapped gift that arrived in JJ’s mailbox.

                That doesn’t mean Otabek didn’t tell him, but JJ’s a kind man. He’ll let Yuri believe that he’s gotten away without a trace.

                “Just suggestions if you want to make something! I’m not exactly a chef, but I can write you a great tune?” JJ hums, alert as they turn the corner onto another alleyway. Down a staircase, then around a divide, and up again. Their feet wander with their eyes and ears.

                “I’ll laugh at you,” Yuri deadpans. JJ snorts, rolling his eyes. He had called it, totally accurate.

                “I’m hurt,” he says instead. Yuri glances over at him, eyes seeking, then returning to the objective at hand. JJ watches his steps, the sound of his sneakers pounding against the ground, and wonders if he still knows his way around.

                Tying a loose tie too tight is just as bad.

                Yuri’s steps stutter to a sudden stop. His hand flings out, waiting, breath caught and stance cautious. It’s here.

                There’s three “rules” that all weapons know.

                The first rule is that weapons are near indestructible in weapon form, in fact, it’s said that weapons could live forever if they weren’t cut down in battle. It’s why there’s a different standard of lifestyle between a weapon in human form, and in weapon form. It’s why when JJ turns, shifts, feels his body come apart and form together again, molding, remolding, turning shiny and solid and strong, it’s okay.

                Yuri’s fingers close around him.

                The corrupted human is wretched. It limbers on scissor legs, tiny pointed blades that crack against the cement floor. Its face is simply a gas mask, with broken straps and sewed onto the skull. It’s back is high, arched, an ugly thin thing that clumsily taps along the ground, looking for its target.

                It’s their target.

                “I’m going in,” Yuri whispers. His fingers tighten, both hands grasping together, eyes narrowing as his feet tiptoe around the corner. Closer, closer, until they’re on the same street, eye to back. JJ watches, waits; the monster turns on its hind scissor legs.

                “Go,” JJ whispers. Yuri’s off like a bullet, raising JJ in his arms, but the corrupted soul is gone. It’s disappeared right before their eyes, somewhere they can’t see, can’t access. At least, if they were normal humans.

                From inside the gems of the staff, JJ looks. His eyes are plentiful, sharing every view and angle from where Yuri clutches him. Left, right, around, up the walls and down, then scaling around Yuri and then to the floor, upward to the sky and that’s when JJ sees it.

                “Duck!” Yuri obeys, rolling backwards as the thing comes crashing back down. It’s legs snap together, breaking apart chunks of the floor and wall. Each leg extends, longer, shaky, and breaks into two, large thin blades that come together with a small _chink_.

                “Fuck, seriously?” Yuri hisses, drawing JJ close to his chest. His eyes dart around the alley, surveying the nearby exits, what objects they can utilize, what little traces of human population they should avoid. The thing comes closer, wobbling precariously on its eight points and Yuri intakes a sharp breath, leaning on his hind legs.

                “It’s consumed too many human souls. I’m pretty sure that’s why it’s evolving,” Yuri explains in a low whisper, eyes remaining on their target. JJ hums, a little vibration, his eyes wandering. Think, think. There was a way into this, there will be a way out of this.

                Wait.

                “Yuri, the stairs,” JJ points out. Yuri swallows, eyes searching the edges of the alleyway until the thought clicks and he grins, rocking back on his heels before shooting forward, wielding JJ tightly in his hands.

                “Move!” Yuri yells, swinging JJ at the deformity. The monster scrambles back at the blow, leaping high again as they scale the stairs, Yuri skipping every over step. JJ stares back, eyes tracing the legs as they spread again, reaching out farther, farther, closing in.

                “Swing!” Yuri does, snapping back on the top step with ease. His sneaker squeaks against the floor, a loud whiny sound, as JJ feels the head of the staff smash against the gas mask. Glass shards shatter at the impact, a loud screeching noise as the scissor legs scrape against one another, the monster tilting back and tripping down the stairs.

                “Closing in!”

                “Wait!” Yuri’s already leaped. JJ watches, eyes open, cautious, worried, as Yuri slams him down again, hard against the “neck” of the creature. The legs fumble, bowing and collapsing, the neck cracking as it simply snaps off the body.

                JJ has a horrible feeling about this.

                “Yuri, run!” The body, that thin little wiry frame, topples over. It crumples, dissolving before their eyes, drifting into a pile of dust. The legs tap to life again, wobbly, jumping around the formless sand until it swirls, moving upward, higher, higher.

                “Shit,” Yuri murmurs. They’re off again, rocketing up the stairs as the spiraling mound grows, broken scissors and sand and then glass fragments from the gas mask, shifting in and out of the cyclone. “Shit!”

                It’s that same thing again. A monster that’s been let free for too long; consumed too many human souls. The dust crackles and fizzle with the metal and glass pieces, shaping and loosing shape, until it’s high, higher than the tops of the buildings. Yuri’s there, on the top of the stairs, turning onto a sloped road that the dust settles. The cloudy creature leaps.

                It comes crashing down, jaws snapping.

                “Yuri!” JJ screams, feeling his blood chill at the sight. The face is clearly a screaming human, mouth full of scissor and glass shard teeth, disjointed and horrible. The body is a sandy brown; it’s legs those same long broken points. It smiles down at them, as much as it can with the frozen face. Then it’s mouth opens.

                “Fuck!” Yuri springs into action, swinging JJ again. They’re too slow, the monster dodging with an easy step back on its scissor hind legs and then it’s launching itself forward. It’s fast, too fast for them. If JJ doesn’t do something, it’s going to bite into Yuri’s head. If JJ doesn’t do something, it’s going to kill his partner.

                The first rule all weapons know is that in weapon form, they are near indestructible.

                A staff, even as long as JJ is, isn’t enough to clog up that stuck, disastrous mouth. A human arm, however, would easily take up the space.

                Changing from weapon to human form feels odder than the other way around. One is condensation, reducing, folding himself into thin ribbons that curl and twirl into a solid shape. The other is someone snipping a line along the staff, watching those ribbons come apart at the seams, rebuilding a larger, wider frame.

                Sometimes, that wider frame is needed.

                “JJ!” Yuri yells as JJ spills out his hands, a blinding white light as matter rearranges itself. His arm is up then, fast, darting, a fist diving into that frozen human’s mouth, glass and metal carving itself upward his arm, driving sharp pieces into skin and tearing open old wounds. The face shifts under his hand, disgusting, terrifying, and the sharps dig in. JJ grits his teeth. He can’t scream.

                The second rule is that weapons don’t need to be in weapon form to attack.

                This applies for all kinds of attacks, physical, mental, spiritual, and definitely magical. JJ’s free hand reaches out, behind, swinging, and Yuri pulls in, fingers encircling his and his eyes scream the protests that JJ can’t focus on.

                He doesn’t need to hear them when he can feel Yuri like this.

                It’s ice. Furious, freezing ice, that shoots outward into that frozen face and splintering the body, icicles forming and snapping the scissor legs, cracking open the dusty skin in pointed holes along the back. It’s ice, promising revenge and death and fear, running through the monster, jabbing along all the connecting points stabbed into JJ’s arm, swirling and eating away.

                It’s ice, desperation, confusion, horror, that Yuri’s sending his way.

                The monster shatters.

                JJ goes stumbling back.

                Yuri grunts, releasing JJ’s hand to grasp onto his shoulders, eyes wide and mouth gaping but not a noise comes out at the sight of his right arm, cut up and bent odd. The pain is strange, numbing in a way, and JJ can’t find himself watching the corrupted soul fall apart when Yuri’s hair is tickling along his cheeks, pupils wide and face shaking, shivering.

                “Yuri.” JJ needs to protect this boy.

                Yuri doesn’t answer, breathing still tight. His eyes do draw upward at the blackened red soul rising upward from the fallen form. It’s small, smaller than the usual corrupted soul they see, but its richer with chaos than the rest.

                “Yuri,” JJ repeats, “go call the school and let them know we’re done.”

                JJ shifts away from Yuri. The blonde lets him go without another word, just watching with baited breath as he walks towards to the soul, uninjured hand out and grasping. Despite its size, the soul is heavy, a balled up thing weighted with all the souls of those that have fallen before it.

                A glance backwards reveals Yuri is gone.

                Good.

                JJ tosses the soul against the floor, just to see it bounce. Even nature doesn’t want back the corrupted ones, huh? That’s fine—what mother nature doesn’t want JJ will gladly take. He lifts the trinket, arm blazing with every jostle of his frame, and open his mouth wide.

                As always, it disappears the moment it hits his throat.

                “Yuri? Yuri?” JJ calls out. No response from the other. It’s probably reasonably difficult to find a glass plane here though, far from the center of town and distant enough from human population that this corrupted soul could have devoured for so long. Thinking of all the lost lives that could have been saved if this had been known before recently is just cruel.

                So JJ doesn’t think of that.

                Instead, he thinks of healing, and the three rules.

                The first rule all weapons know is that in weapon form, they are near indestructible.

                The second rule is that weapons don’t need to be in weapon form to attack.

                JJ raises his battered arm, running his eyes over the bloodied form. It’s bent awkwardly, probably broken in the moment that the face changed form, forcing his arm into unnatural angles to maintain the connection. There’s shards of glass etched into his arm, little fragments just sticking out. He could go to a doctor for this and wait for hours as they pick through every detail.

                Or he could simply scrap it.

                JJ raises his uninjured hand, holding it against the injured forearm, fingers pinching at the skin right below the start of the injuries. This is going to hurt. This is going to suck.

                Taking in a deep breath, JJ thinks of cold, presses his hand against his arm and pulls.

                “ _Fuck_.”

                Skin doesn’t tear all that easily, despite what paper cuts may imply. But the pain of trying remains, even if the skin doesn’t, and JJ grits his teeth as his hand returns to the task at hand. Freeze, pull, rinse and repeat. A pellet of glass falls out of his arm, and he gasps, sucking in a pained moan. His fingers work quickly, pulling, pushing, heating just once and it burns, harsh, hot and JJ can’t help the little whimper of pain that escapes through clenched teeth.

                Then his hand is off.

                “What the fuck are you doing?!” Yuri shouts. JJ isn’t sure whether he smiles or grimaces, eying the blurry figure of the other. Ah. Is he tearing up?

                “Yuri,” darn, his voice feels hoarse, “you’re talking.”

                “What the fuck. Are you doing?” Yuri repeats. He’s holding JJ’s hand captive with one harsh grip, the other hand finding its way around the upper bicep of his injured arm. He’s glaring, staring, maybe, at JJ.

                “Did you finish the call?” His arm itches in Yuri’s grasp. The unfinished job burns, painful and raw, and Yuri must notice because he shifts his hand immediately, coming in close and pushing his hands up against JJ’s shoulders.

                “Forget that. Why the fuck are you hurting yourself?” JJ opens his mouth to explain but Yuri cuts him off, already shuffling away but staying close, arms open. “Shut up. I already called Chris so we’re going. Now.”

                “Yuri?” The blonde’s arms are out, unmoving as he stares.

                “You’re not walking there.” Ah.

                JJ contemplates just walking away. He wouldn’t exactly get far in this condition, but he could beat the other if he’s smart. It’s not even his legs that are hurt. But his mind is dizzy, his arm burns and if he goes now, he might be too afraid to come back. So he wobbles over to Yuri, and settles for being carried in those small arms.

                Long, strong fingers, a thin pink lip, harsh words.

                JJ’s never felt so relieved.

-

                Professor Giacometti turns out to be some sort of medical god. That, or the school nurse.

                “I thought Yuri was kidding about you trying to rip your own arm off,” Chris chuckles, pinching at another pink patch of skin and pulling at a sharp of glass. “That’s terrible.”

                JJ hisses at the removal. It stings, small sharp jolts of pain that leave the skin nearby feeling raw and sensitive. At the very least, the nursing office is empty. There’s only a single row of waiting chairs outside, empty, and JJ with professor inside the room itself, under the bright lights centered on the bed Chris had ushered JJ on.

                “This way is too slow,” JJ replies, grimacing as Chris pinches another bump, tweezers prickling as they pinch. “Ow, ow, ugh. I would have, hah, been done by now.” Even without removing a speck, every pull against his skin hurts.

                The third rule is that weapons heal far faster than meisters and humans.

                Dealing with bits in the skin and broken bones means needing to have constant aid, like how professor Giacometti is treating him here. It would be far easier to simply tear at however many layers of skin is needed and just wait for that skin to regrow. As for the bone, JJ was fairly certain that he could set it back to the right place. Well, maybe.

                “And what then? You tear off half your skin, congrats. What’s the point?” Christophe is a rather focused man on a mission. He had popped JJ’s elbow back in, revealing that his bone hadn’t been broken at all. Regardless, he still desired another look at the arm after the removal of potential infection pieces.

                “I heal,” JJ insists, frustration creeping into his words. “I heal and then I can fight in two days, max. I cannot fight with a cast and hours long picking process!”

                “Do you want to fight that badly?” No. JJ frowns, arm still as Chris changes position again, fingers tightly grasping at his elbow. It’s not that he’s a fan of fighting.

                “No, I don’t,” he replies.

                “Then why do you have to fight right away?” Christophe’s words are quiet as he leans down, ticking the brightness of the overhead a little higher, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he works. JJ watches his deft hands, fast, but painful pokes digging in.

                “That’s what a weapon does.” Professor Giacometti’s hands freeze, just a moment.

                “And who told you that?”

                “No one.” Truly, no one person. It had just been spelled out, forward, backward, in all languages and variations. Every morning during breakfast, at the start of combat training, they would recite those words. That long, dreadfully boring school anthem, speaking about age-old thoughts and statements. In there, JJ had always heard those words. “It’s something you just know. Weapons are for fighting.”

                “I disagree,” JJ blinks over the words, glancing at the curly blonde back of professor Giacometti’s working head. The man’s voice grows wistful as he speaks.

                “We’re not just weapons. We’re people too, souls; thinking, working, feeling souls. Just because we have the ability to fight doesn’t mean that’s all we should do. Just think of your mom. Aren’t you glad she chose to live a life beyond just fighting? Now she can boast to the rest of us that she has a beautiful family.” Mom, mama.

                Professor Giacometti and her, death scythes.

                “Don’t you want to be able to do that one day? Take a step away from fighting?” He does. That’s what JJ wanted in a meister—they didn’t have to be strong, or courageous, or much of a leader at all. They just had to be someone that JJ wanted to be with. And he had found that person.

                If it’s Yuri, JJ could, maybe

                _It’s your fault that she’s like this._

                No.

                “I can’t.” His arm trembles because it hurts, the prickling of his arm, the cold and warm flushes, the pain that suddenly grips his chest. “It’s my fault. I can’t give up here. It’s my, it’s all my fault.”

                “What is?” Fuck. JJ pulls his other hand up, scratching at his neck.

                Pink and green wrapping paper. Manila and orange cookies. Black, straight hair. Beautiful blue eyes. A pretty voice with prettier words.

                Ripping himself apart to be useful.

                Her doing the same.

                “Everything. Everything.” His chest burns.

                “What is?” It bursts.

                “I hurt her. I lied,” the words crawl up, heavy, infectious, playing with his tongue when he doesn’t want it to work, “mama told me not to look at my phone but then she called and I didn’t, I didn’t pick up. She needed me. I just, I knew she needed me. I didn’t go. I didn’t want to go!”

                Isabella, Isabella.

                The hero of Liberty City. His hero. Mama and papa would never be satisfied with a meister, no matter their price tag nor their flattery. Every suitor came and went, hands and eyes that never failed from stray from his face, and JJ had smiled, taken it all in because he was used to it, accustomed to that life, shining under the spotlights and glittering as shiny as the jewels encrusted in his staff.

                Then Isabella had waltzed into his life, brighter than any diamond reflection.

                “I wanted her. I _want_ her. But she wasn’t mine. And I—I wasn’t hers.” It feels odd to say it aloud, to feel that prickle against his eyes. Isabella had been the city’s meister, JJ the weapon. They suited each other; they couldn’t belong to each other. They were naïve, young, wanting and not used to being wanted.

                “I hurt her,” JJ repeats. He thinks of the waiting room. He thinks of coming home to the ruins of the school, to the fierce threats coming the way of his family, to the questions about where he had been. He thinks of the television shows, of the microphones and the loud interviews, of the too-close hands and the spotlight and the thought of being put into a glass case for some stranger, never to be used to hurt another, never to be used at all.

                For the first time since coming to Death City, JJ just thinks.

                “We never split up because we were never together.” Mother, father, Leo, the teachers and the principal. The bidders, the meisters, the weapons and the suitors. The corrupted human souls he killed, alone and with her.

                The part of himself that died as well.

                “I need to be strong for that. I need to fight well, to be ready to fight, so that I don’t hurt Yuri. I need to protect him.”

                “He needs to protect you, too.” Professor Giacometti’s words are soft as he works. The pain isn’t as harsh as it was before, dulling to a small twinge every now and then.

                “Yuri does. Just because we’ve been having problems doesn’t mean he’s not doing his part.” Being in separate classes, forced together by the school rules and JJ’s own wild statements, and then a push from a few friends. Just as professor Katsuki had said, all those days before.

                The strongest meister and weapon, yet to come together.

                “Say, professor, why isn’t Yuri in the EAT class?” If what professor Katsuki said was more than mere flattery, then Yuri was a very powerful meister. JJ had seen firsthand what the other could do—more than just soul wavelength manipulation, Yuri could track other wavelengths with a precision even Death Scythes often couldn’t perform.

                “Do you know what EAT and NOT stand for?” Professor Giacometti doesn’t pause, continuing as he prickles another patch of skin. “EAT means Especially Advantaged Talent Class, NOT means Normally Overcome Target Class. It’s not just which class is tougher or harder or whatever you guys say nowadays—it’s about combat ability against corrupted souls. As good as Yuri is, he can’t tackle them alone, so for safety reasons he stayed in NOT.” That makes a surprising amount of sense. Regardless, despite being a transfer, JJ had the option of going straight into EAT and he had no partner.

                “Liberty City transfers were a unique case,” Professor Giacometti interrupts. “You guys were trained to fight without a meister and take on corrupted souls independently. So generally speaking, you guys were all at EAT level.”

                That was the line between weapon and meister. Try as Yuri might, as a meister he would never catch up to the pure destructive ability of a weapon spending the same amount of energy. It was the unfortunate truth of the world.

                JJ found it awfully cruel.

                Or perhaps that was just the sharp prick of Christophe poking along his palm.

                “If you knew that, why was I allowed to transfer into NOT?” Professor Giacometti hums, thinking, as he focuses in on another bump along the skin. He makes a noise of glee upon pricking it out, despite JJ’s hiss.

                “Well, I think you’d know the answer to that better than I. After all, I don’t know of my secondary or tertiary skill.” Oh.

                “That’s it?” It’s disappointing to hear, to simply state. JJ frowns, mulling over the words. It’s true that he has that ability, but it doesn’t mean that he deserves special attention for it. Actually, he shouldn’t receive special attention for it at all.

                “The only person who knows about that is Yuri, and he doesn’t know the difference,” JJ points out. Professor Giacometti doesn’t respond, and JJ narrows his eyes. “Mama doesn’t even know the form of my tertiary skill. How do you know I have it?”

                Christophe laughs.

                “I have a certain assistant, very smart, clever, great eyes and an even better mind. It takes him one meeting to figure out how to chart someone’s strengths, weaknesses, so forth. I didn’t know about it until he told me just yesterday.” Yesterday? JJ’s mind backlogs, recalling, thinking. He hadn’t done any fighting outside of missions. The only times he even indulges in using a skill outside of battle is for stupid things, like freezing ice packs, or cooling his neck, or heating up noodles.

                Noodles.

                “Seung Gil.” JJ had reformed those chocolate candies the senior had given to him and Leo. Professor Giacometti clicks his tongue.

                “Correct,” he doesn’t sound all that surprised as he works, “Seung Gil is one of my many talented assistants. I pointed Leo his way because I knew he could help, and then Leo pointed him your way because he knew Seung Gil could help too. Gets around a lot, doesn’t he?”

                No, that’s not what JJ would say. The Korean senior hadn’t resembled much of a playboy at all—rather, he looked to JJ like a prime meister could be. Someone mature, quiet but knowing, supportive of others and confident in self, analytical, physical, a presence very much there.

                It is almost a shame that he is a weapon.

                “That’s a good talent,” JJ murmurs instead. His free hand opens and clenches, stretching those tired joints as professor Giacometti flips his injured arm, picking out the prickling pains along the exposed side. His skin remains pink, raw, old whited out patches of hurt bubbling upward with a vengeance.

                Professor Giacometti presses down, firm, and JJ hisses.

                “You can control it pretty well,” his fingers hold down the twinging forearm firmly, feeling for bumps and ridges of glass shards along the open skin. “You said Yuri doesn’t know. Are you going to tell him?”

                That’s something JJ isn’t sure of himself. He hesitates, breath caught, and professor moves on.

                “Did she hurt you?” _She._

                “No,” JJ’s reply is instantaneous. “She never would. That would go against everything she represented.” Open, caring arms and a warm sunny smile. Endless, enthusiastic support. At the time, JJ didn’t know what he needed. Maybe it was that. Maybe it was the sharp tongue he has now.

                “Was she your partner?”

                “No,” maybe, once, one a day they came too close and hands joined too fast, eyes that couldn’t wander too far and that familiar itch along his arms, broken, torn, and her healing lips. “Professor, why did you break up with professor Nikiforov?”

                To his credit, Christophe’s hands don’t hesitate when picking out another shard. He ticks up the overhead lights a few more notches, and works.

                “We didn’t really break up,” his words are faint, as silent as the point of the scrapple at the small openings in JJ’s skin, “I was already a Death Scythe. Just because Victor was my meister until then doesn’t mean that he was still my meister—there’s a reason there are Death Scythes and not Death Meisters.”

                “But,” mama and papa always fight together.

                “Romance is different,” professor Giacometti breaks in, digging out a crooked piece of glass, “that’s why Victor raised Yuuri. People always say that he just wanted to prove his meister skill, but I’ll remember. He loved Yuuri the moment they met.”

                “Victor would follow Yuuri anywhere, regardless of whose meister or weapon.”

                “I understand,” JJ replies. To follow, and to be followed; there is no designated role in a relationship. If being placed into a relationship means being placed into a pre-designated role, squished into a single characteristic, then it’s not much of a relationship at all.

                “Professor, do you think he’s mad?”

                “I think you know that more than I do,” he laughs, scraping the edge along JJ’s knuckles, feeling for tiny bumps.

                The fear of the corrupted transformation. The fury at JJ shifting out of Yuri’s arms. The hatred, not at JJ but at himself, when he saw the shards coming into his skin. The broiling desperation to protect. That quiet, quiet response with the kill.

                _Why the fuck are you hurting yourself?_

            So much in so little.

            “I think,” he doesn’t know, he can’t know. He can guess. “I think he’s mad. But it’s,” not just anger, it’s fear, concern, desperation, love, that swirls in those green eyes, “I think he’s more than just mad. I think he just doesn’t know what to do.”

            To be honest, “I don’t know what to do either.”

            “That’s good.” Is it really? JJ glances over the bobbing curls, poking along the remaining skin. Then professor Giacometti stands, stretching, two fingers remaining on the palm of JJ’s hands.

            “Don’t move, I’ll get the gauze,” Christophe moves away, opening drawers, peering through glass windows, knocking on the small, thin tabs as though the folders would open to reveal medical equipment. “It’s good that he’s not just mad, right? That’s what happens when you’re young. A-ha!” Professor Giacometti whoops, raising his hand to reveal a tightly bound roll of bandages and a tube of gauze.

            Christophe’s hands are warm and firm when they reach back to JJ’s forearm. They hold his arm steady, wrapping around, around, squeezing some of that sticky, stingy solution and JJ bites back his whines, watching. The loops tighten as professor goes around the are again, binding tight, tighter, forcing his hand along his arm into place. Then he snips off the end of a tab, and slides it into the wrapping.

            “Done.” JJ breathes, letting his chest fall as he clenches his hand again. His fingers barely touch each other, it stings to move his arm upward too far, a strain along the pierced muscles, and he looks at it. He breathes.

            “Thank you,” for helping, for coming in on this impromptu visit, for taking the time that JJ can’t recall anyone else doing, for listening, for talking, for keeping eyes open on students that aren’t his.

            “You’re welcome,” professor Giacometti smiles, and takes a step back as JJ slides forward, to the edge, then off, the bed, careful, feet tapping against the floor. He’s unsteady, wobbling just slightly, and his uninjured hand reaches for the bed.

            His chest rises. His chest falls.

            JJ balances himself, and breathes.

            “Does it hurt?” JJ shakes his head. His limbs are sore, tired and overused muscles; his head is spinning. It doesn’t hurt.

            Professor Giacometti smiles.

            “Is it painful?” He asks. JJ starts to shake his head again, but it’s not quite the same question this time. He pauses, thinking, stretching his fingers and twisting his arm, rolling from heel to arch of his foot and thinking of the bites of glass and the bites of words. They’re equally painful.

            “A little, but it’s okay.” He’ll take the short way home and sleep away. He’ll text Leo and Otabek, and call Yuri, and then mama and papa and he’ll be okay. The pain will fade away.

            Professor Giacometti opens the door out of the nurses’ office. The lights outside are startlingly bright and JJ groans, raising his hand and casting shadows against his face, turning away from the shine. Still, he needs to actually leave the building and that requires walking out of the waiting area. Squinting, reaching out his arm, JJ intends to feel his way out.

            Fingers close around his.

            “That took forever,” the words are harsh, accusatory as though JJ could have sped up the process. He feels along the shallow ridges of those fingers, thin, sturdy, grasping his own. It tugs and he follows.

            “Yuri, don’t be too pushy with a patient!” Professor Giacometti calls out, barking a laugh. Yuri gives JJ another tug just because, growing, and JJ laughs; the lights too bright and his head dizzy and feet tired, the long, long day fading away to the feeling of Yuri’s hand around his.

            The moment they leave the medical ward is painfully clear, lights dimming significantly. JJ blinks, fluttering his eyes to try to make out the red columns along the school’s tall hallways and the door openings that they pass by. He’s one, two steps behind Yuri, maybe straight, maybe diagonal. Yuri’s jacket is cut, the sleeves torn at the ends and his bag is slung over his shoulder. It’s unzipped, the colorful notebooks flashing with every step and JJ reaches out to fix it.

            “Don’t bother,” Yuri mumbles and JJ stops, his finger catching on the zipper pull. They turn the corner, then another, walking around the maze of the school, until Yuri halts and grunts, pushing the heavy front door. JJ closes his eyes.

            He opens them to Yuri.

            “Can you see?” Yuri pulls the zipper closed, one arm working behind his head, the other still hand in hand with JJ. He looks at the night sky, the flashing lights of a busy city, the movement of night life. He sees that age old creepy moon laughing, hacking and shining downward and he turns to see Yuri.

                Soft blonde hair, dangling above his chin, sparkling green eyes and a hard low voice. Long, strong fingers, a thin pink lip, harsh words.

                Yuri.

                “Yes,” JJ answers. Yuri nods, and they’re walking again, Yuri’s steps insistent and his breathing low. Wait.

                “Yuri, stop.” The blonde halts, abrupt, his feet rocking and his face turned away. JJ looks at him, watches the long yellow locks fall over his ears, frame his face, that little heave and fall of his chest. Yuri looks outward at the city, at the long staircase down, away from the front of the school and away from JJ.

                “I’m sorry.

                “for the cruel things I said. I’m sorry for hurting you! And not getting to say it yet. And sorry because it’s been a long day, a long _week_ and I should have apologized sooner. Sorry because you’re my partner, and I trust you, and I want you to succeed and instead of working together to prepare now the EAT exams are coming up and we’ve really done nothing.” Yuri pulls at their hands, forward, tugging, and JJ doesn’t move, feet planted firmly on the floor. Fury, maybe fear, snakes between their fingers, forcing them sticky, and Yuri grips his hand tightly.

                “And thank you!” If he doesn’t say it now, JJ doesn’t know when these words will even come out.

                “Thank you for being here. For staying, even though I couldn’t say anything to you. Thank you for the sweets! Thank you for being my meister, even though you didn’t want to. Thank you for being angry at me, and for being sad for me. Thank you for caring!”

                “That’s not something you need to thank me for!” Yuri snarls, whipping around. His eyes are livid, furious with something unlike anger, hand squeezing JJ. “That’s normal. That’s what I’m supposed to do! Don’t thank me for something I don’t deserve.”

                “And don’t apologize. It wasn’t your fault,” Yuri’s voice trickles to a low murmur.

                “It wasn’t yours either,” JJ comments, thinking back to the very words Seung Gil had gifted him with. He would have to find a way to thank him; all the people who were there. It’s important.

                “Yuri, give me both your hands.” This is important, too.

                Yuri gives him a skeptical glance at the wrapped forearm, reluctant as his hand rises. JJ mirrors the motion, coming closer until their fingers touch, his own poking out of the white wrappings. Hand in hand, JJ breathes and thinks.

                Why Yuri?

                Was it his feisty personality? The way he so arrogantly denied others, marching forward stubbornly without care for another? Or perhaps the way he held the few that he held close tightly, unwilling to let a single slip from his grasp? Was it the bite that echoed in his soul; that tempting image of delicacy that turned into poison fangs?

                Yuri’s hands tighten as the heat begins to pour in.

                What of his bitterness? The cold, calculating glance he had for dismissing the words others had for him? What of his insistence on blocking out others, hiding away from the world? Was it that little hidden self, the centerpiece when all had melted away? Did Yuri wish to melt? Or was he bound by his own chains, a slow, tormenting soul?

                Yuri’s fingers scrap against his palm. He’s waiting.

                “Weapons all have a primary skill. It’s an attack any weapon can do without a meister, and physical. It’s the way you fight with me; a physical smash against an enemy.” Yuri nods.

                “Then there’s a secondary skill. Not all weapons have it, and some prefer it over their primary. It’s an attack that’s not physical, and can be done without a meister. Like bullets, or ninja stars, or telekinesis. It’s what I’m doing now,” JJ explains.

                “What do you feel?”

                “My right hand is cold; my left hand is warm.” Yuri responds. His eyes are shadowed against the moonlight and JJ swallows, looking down.

                “That’s my secondary skill. Something close enough to me, touching or within a certain radius, I can alter its temperature. But I can’t make something out of nothing. That’s a tertiary skill—one that can be physical or not, and something only done with a meister.”

                “Fire and ice,” Yuri breaks in. His hands are cool and warm against JJ’s mirrored pair, and he breathes, letting loose of the image.

                “Right. Most weapons have the potential for a tertiary skill but never achieve it unless they become a Death Weapon and serve under Her Lady Death. It’s incredibly rare for someone to do it with their meister. I-It requires a lot of trust, and souls that just click,” JJ’s words are turning into a rambling lecture, and he can’t bother to slow, “that’s why it’s so impressive that we did it. Because I didn’t know you and you didn’t know me but we did it, Yuri, even though I was scared that we wouldn’t be able to fight together we did it.

                “Even mama doesn’t know. I’ve never connected with anyone like that before. So!”

                JJ clenches down on Yuri’s hands, tight, his eyes sparkling with hope.

                “Yuri, you’re my first, my last, my only meister! I’ve never been someone’s, a really true, partner. You’re my only. So,” his voice drops, “is it okay for me to follow you forever?”

                A meister will often have multiple weapons before they settle down with one. The same holds true for weapons in a general sense; however, since weapons live for so much longer unless cut down in battle, they often go through several meisters. Several that they love, live with, and continue to love long after their death.

                If it ever comes to that point, JJ isn’t sure that he’d be willing to walk on the Earth alone.

                “Obviously.”

                Huh?

                “Do what you want!” Yuri’s voice is loud, abrupt, and JJ jolts at the volume. “You aren’t my first weapon. But you can be my last, and my only from here on.” His eyes trace JJ’s, that familiar energy burning through his soul, his hands squeezing. Yuri steps in, close, closer, their bodies near touching with only their hands between, the little bits of static sticking stray strands of hair to JJ’s jacket.

                “Don’t follow me. Just stay by my side.”

                JJ looks at Yuri, really, really looks. He sees more than blonde hair and green eyes, long, strong fingers and a pretty slim jaw.

                JJ sees the texture of work engraved into Yuri’s fingers. He sees dirt and blood stains on Yuri’s cheek. He sees the cuts along his jacket, the ragged look of his bag. He sees stubborn, shining eyes. He sees someone he wants to stand by, forever.

                JJ sees thin, pink lips.

                He wants to

                “It’s late. Let’s go,” Yuri murmurs. His hand drops JJ’s injured one, leaving the bumpy surface cool against the night wind. His hair flutters, stars dancing between the open locks and the bridge of his nose is sharp on the background of Death City.

                “We have school tomorrow.”

                JJ smiles, clenches Yuri’s hand tight, their fingers brushing and he can almost imagine the brush against his knuckles. Right now, tomorrow feels a long way off.

                “Okay, let’s go.”

-

                The pot is as ugly as the first time.

                “The exams are in two days, so we’re rushing a bit. Now, I know that you guys weren’t exactly, um, happy about this last time. But there’s no incense this time! It’s just you, your partners, and the pot.” Professor Katsuki smiles encouragingly. As much as he can with Mila looking skeptically over the milky mixture and with Michele glaring daggers into him.

                It would be almost pitiful if JJ wasn’t pretty annoyed himself.

                “Why are we doing this again?” Michele calls out.

                “Because it’s a good test,” professor Nikiforov answers instead of Katsuki. “Pass it and you’ll pass the practical! If you can’t, then you might fail.” His sing-song words are playful, if devious. In moments, they’re all glancing over their bowls again, having a rougher idea of what to expect.

                There’s two larger bowls this time, made to fit three people. JJ smiles as he looks over the newly formed trio of Phichit, Guang Hong and Leo. Mila had teased Phichit furiously on sight, though mostly falling flat to his blind enthusiasm. Sara had looked over them, smiling before the class started.

                “You three look good together.”

                It was the highlight of the day, without a doubt.

                “Quiz me.” Hm? JJ blinks out of his recollection, looking at Yuri glaring over a well-loved notebook. Papers and pages are torn, ripped out and taped back together, worn and yellowed. The Russian snarls, flinging the notebook to JJ’s side of the pot and hovers over the bowl.

                “When we put our hands in, quiz me about the topics,” Yuri directs.

                “Okay, okay,” JJ placates, raising his hands to follow. The bandages wrapped around his hand have decreased significantly, down to a base layer mostly for looks. His hands are mostly free, just a few bandages covering the torn skin between his knuckles. When he had entered the room looking fine, Yuri had looked ready to clobber him.

                Now Yuri just wants to clobber his book.

                “One, two, go!” Yuri shouts, and their hands splash in. The liquid has that same murky texture, something slimy and gross oozing between his fingers, wrapping around with a vicious grip. It pulls in, a sticky force, and JJ lets it. His fingers slip in further, more, until its swallowing his bandages and crawling up his wrists.

                “What is Eater’s Theorem?” Oh, JJ should probably study this too.

                “Something about enforcing bodies with soul wavelengths and about how weapons are great. Next!” Yuri calls, and JJ chuckles. Their hands sink in with more ease, a little glide and wriggle.

                “What about Rowl’s?” Yuri hums at that, thinking. His shoulders are bent forward, his back hunched and kneeling, staring down into the white viscous fluid.

                “Something about meister-weapon exchange of power. More soul wavelength stuff. It’s all soul wavelength stuff!” Yuri groans. JJ grins, glancing over the paper. That’s not entirely wrong, but it’s not entirely right either.

                “Pop quiz. Who is the youngest Death Weapon in the world?” JJ asks.

                “Yuuri.” Instantaneous answer.

                “Who was his meister?” This isn’t going to be on the test.

                “Victor.” Oh well.

                “Why do you call them by their first names?” Curiosity gets the best of everyone.

                “Why not?” Yuri retorts, shaking off the grip of the liquid to slide further into the bowl. He looks a little silly, hunched over as he is, but JJ can’t imagine himself looking all that much better. “Why don’t you?”

                “They’re our teachers,” JJ pinches his face, imagining. That’s like calling his parents by their first name—odd taste in his mouth.

                “Michele is one year younger than Yuuri,” Yuri elaborates. JJ grimaces again, perfectly grossed out thanks, and Yuri grins, impish. “He gets love letters every year.”

                “Ew, no,” JJ sticks out his tongue. “What does professor Nikiforov say?”

                “Ugh,” it’s Yuri’s turn to groan, rolling his eyes dramatically as their gazes shift to the center of the room. Professor Katsuki and Nikiforov are just talking, but that’s not where a casual hand goes. Oh, okay, that’s Victor’s hand moving across, alright then, and Yuuri’s just, okay, that’s

                “Ugh,” JJ agrees, feeling his face flush, turning back to the bowl. The liquid feels strangely mild today—neither hot nor cold. Yuri clicks his tongue, disgust evident in the curl of his lips, though his gaze lingers a moment longer.

                They sit in silence, just staring down at the swirling bowl. The ornate edges are dull from age, far more yellowed than Yuri’s notes. Green rust flakes off the sides, the handles worn and used.

                JJ stretches his fingers in the thickness, and wonders how such a small bowl can feel so impossibly deep.

                “Pop quiz part two. Are Mila and Otabek your best friends?” JJ starts up.

                “Otabek is,” Yuri corrects. His gaze wanders to the two working on their own bowl, speaking quietly. “Mila and another guy you haven’t met, Georgi, we met a long time ago. Victor wasn’t with Yuuri back then. We were just,” he shrugs, “there, together.”

                “Is Leo yours?” Yuri counters.

                “Hm, I don’t know?” JJ smiles, letting his head fall to his shoulders, stretching. His arms will get sore if the bowl doesn’t start getting more shallow. “He’s my friend, and so is Otabek. We’ve been through a lot together; I really care about him. Back in Liberty though, you weren’t usually friends with anyone so much as rivals. I’d like that, though.”

                “Then he is,” Yuri responds, matter-of-factly. “Why did you point me out on the first day?”

                “I called Otabek about any meisters he knew. And he just so happened to speak rather fondly of you,” JJ laughed at Yuri’s shocked expression. The blonde huffed, pushing down more, stronger, into the bowl.

                “I’m happy that he told me about you.” The words are sincere.

                “Yeah,” Yuri mumbles. He is, too.

                “Oh, do you know a guy named Seung Gil?” JJ wonders; Seung Gil had mentioned working together with Yuri, however brief. The blonde blinks, narrowing his eyes in thought, lips pursed.

                “I don’t know. Why?” he settles on. Yuri really can’t recall.

                “He said you were his meister for a while,” JJ explained. Yuri makes a noise of affirmation, recalling all those that he worked with before. It wouldn’t be surprising to hear that Yuri could have collected well over the 99 human souls needed to form a Death Scythe—just with many different weapons.

                “Maybe. Wait, why’d he tell you?” JJ laughs at the question, mind skipping back to what he had said about Yuri. He probably shouldn’t mention that.

                “He just did. It’s good to share things about yourself on a date,” JJ jokes. Not much of a date when it’s mostly spent lamenting the limited wallet, melting chocolates and the inevitable discussion over lunch. Also not much of date when no one intended it to be one, but well, why not?

                Except Yuri is staring at him, jaw slowly opening.

                “A date?” He sputters. His hands must go in several centimeters because his face is lowering down, closer to the pot with every passing question.

                “Just a friendly one?” JJ tries, but Yuri’s look doesn’t change. “Okay, not a date. I just met him and we talked. Leo introduced us. Apparently Seung Gil is an independent weapon, and a really strong one too.” Yuri’s face finally softens, coming down to a bit more human.

                “Good, I don’t need to see more lovey-dovey couples,” Yuri bemoans. JJ snorts at the words, grinning as Yuri gives an overdramatic roll of eyes.

                “Even if I’m in them?” JJ bats his lashes, smacking his lips noisily. Yuri smirks.

                “Especially if you’re in them,” he retorts. His smile borders on mischievous, tone aimlessly light. Yuri glances back down to the pot, pushing, making a way in. JJ watches him move.

                Yuri licks his lips, grunts, and bends his elbows, forcing downward. His jacket sleeves are rolled up, the ends of his tee shirt sticking out. The hood of it bobs as he leans over more, working, working, putting his best effort into the little things.

                JJ’s on a slippery slope, and all its pointing is down.

                His hands touch the bottom.

                “Yuri!” “JJ!”

                Suddenly, the bowl isn’t all that deep. JJ’s forearm is barely submerged, though Yuri’s gone a bit farther in. They’ve done it, touched the bottom, and all that’s left to is meet the other. JJ moves in closer, shuffling, Yuri reflecting the motion. A knee in, then rocking his weight, pushing against the constant swirl, extending his fingers.

                There’s a bump against his.

                JJ looks up.

                Yuri looks back.

                He’s awfully close. JJ flexes his forefinger and Yuri’s hand closes around it, reaching in, touching, hands warm against each other. JJ breathes in a little trembling breath, and lets it go when he feels Yuri’s against his cheek. They really are awfully close. Enough that it would be so easy to turn and bump their heads. Enough that if they wanted to, they could meet.

                Yuri’s hands drift in a little closer. So JJ does too.

                They shuffle, just that little bit. A little twist, a little lean, close, closer.

                They angle just slightly, enough to avoid prodding each other. Yuri huffs out a breath, and JJ’s cheek feels warm under it. Their eyes meet, looking, and JJ twists his neck just that little bit, close, closer, just enough that his eyelids are starting to

                “Finally!”

                “Shit!” “Sorry!”

                JJ pulls back, feeling his face burn as his hands wrench out of the bowl, not a bit sticky or wet to cover his face. Yuri stares at him, slowly pulling his hands out of the sticky liquid. In the background, Emil laughs, whooping as he speaks to professor Katsuki about managing to reach the bottom of this blasted bowl. It’s all well and good, except JJ feels a bump against his cheek and a horrible flush growing from the neck up.

                That was not what he had, um.

                “So close?” JJ and Yuri turn to professor Nikiforov, grinning smugly over them. His finger is raised in that familiar position, tapping against the edge of his lip.

                JJ ducks his head as Yuri growls.

                “Go away, Victor!” Professor Nikiforov simply chuckles, wandering away with a shrug. It’s okay. JJ’s certain no one else noticed. It’s fine, everything’s fine, he just needs to find peace in the bowl and proceed to be devoured by the ground, that’s all.

                “JJ.” No, nope, he’s not doing this.

                “JJ.” Nada, no chance, non, goodbye, hello floor, JJ’s just going to melt into it now, okay.

                “JJ!” Yuri’s hands make their way to his shoulder, shaking JJ roughly. The Canadian swallows a yelp, finally drawing his eyes upward. Up, up to above Yuri’s nose, and not a bit down.

                “Yuri?” JJ manages.

                “Hurry up and put your hands back in. We have to show them we did it or else they’ll never believe us,” Yuri huffs, pointing to the bowl. Oh. JJ blinks downward, then up, then down again, repeating the words.

                What?

                “That’s it?”

                “How else are they going to know we did it?” Yuri drawls, already hovering over the handles. JJ comes closer, hands outstretched and perfectly far from Yuri, and lets his fingers comb along the surface.

                “Okay,” JJ agrees. Then they’re hands are back in the murky depths, reaching and scrabbling with a new ease. Knowing there’s a bottom, knowing it’s soon, knowing that he can reach it and then be close to Yuri and touch with their

                JJ jerks upward, riveting the flow of the liquid. Yuri raises an eyebrow and JJ sheepishly lowers his hands in again. It’s alright. It’s all okay. It was an accident, that’s all.

                They make it to the bottom again, then after calling for both professors, raise their hands out.  Third and only before Phichit manages to knock over the bowl, JJ and Yuri hustle out of the room, jackets shrugged on and backpacks hanging.

                Their hands meet going down the stairs. Their fingers stick, elbows bump, thighs tap. JJ looks at Yuri.

                They wave goodbye. Say their well wishes, those “good luck studying” and “be ready for the test” sayings. Yuri makes JJ promise to give him a prize for getting in, and JJ jokes that he doesn’t know for sure yet. Yuri’s mouth moves, opening and closing, and for every syllable JJ feels his cheeks redden.

                Just an accident.

                His lips burn at the lie.

-

                JJ wakes to Leo’s name flashing across his phone.

                “Leo, please text me,” JJ moans into the cell, flopping over his bedsheets. His arm hurts for some terrible reason and he just wants to sink into the mattress.

                “Um, it’s not Leo.” Oh.

                “Guang Hong?” That’s not—oh, uh, ha. JJ snorts, snickering as the realization settles in. Go Leo, huh?

                “Leo forgot his phone here and I don’t know where he lives, so”

                “He knows where you live though, right?” Guang Hong makes a frustrated noise into the receiver. JJ quiets his laughter, hard as it is, listening to the other.

                “Just tell him to pick it up!” Guang Hong whines. It comes out static-y.

                “No can do; I’m not going to see him until you do when class starts.” JJ rolls his eyes, calculating the distance from his dorm to Leo’s. It’s not that far, but by the time he’s dressed and somewhat socially acceptable they’ll be too late.

                “You don’t live together?” Uh, what?

                “No? Why would we?” JJ responds.

                “Oh, I just thought. Huh. Why didn’t you ask Yuri to move in with you then?” No, wait, seriously, what?

                “Excuse me?” JJ blinks awake, rubbing at tired eyes as the words settle in. “Is that normal here? Meisters and weapons just move in together?” No, wait, Leo and him were both weapons. Then again, they’re both transfers from Liberty. “Are you telling me at any time I could just up and go live with someone else?”

                “No, I just thought. No, Phichit, stop laughing,” Guang Hong huffs, the sounds of Phichit’s giggles filtering in the phone. “I thought you guys were dating.”

                Ah.

                Oh.

                JJ freezes, feeling suddenly warm. Being under his blankets right now is no good for him. Flipping the covers up, rolling away and off the bed, JJ kicks away the slippers to walk on the wooden floor, shaking off the heat.

                “JJ? Are you there?” Phichit’s speaking now, his voice teasing.

                No.

                “I’m here,” he sighs, touching his phone and dropping it because no, it’s cold, and ugh, this is why he hates activating that power ever.

                “Okay, well, tell Leo and see you at school.” Guang Hong cuts in, an audible thump in the background and Phichit’s loud cackling. The call closes before JJ can get an answer in and he stares at the phone, briefly wondering how he’s going to pick it up.

                This is not how he planned to start the day.

-

                The good thing about written exams is that it’s impossible to try harder during the test. Sure, someone can stare at a question for an extremely long time, but that’s not going to jog their memory into suddenly knowing the answer. It’s all memorization, understandings and pre-established theories, scrawled out on a paper with a neat little bubble in sheet.

                The bad thing about written exams is that when stuck, that’s it. The end, good game, a shiny “you tried” star for every question.

                JJ really doesn’t want a “you tried” star.

                “It’s over, it’s done with, I’m taking a nap for a thousand years no one touch me I’m the next excaliber,” JJ moans into the desk. The wooden surface makes blocking out the sudden rise in noise rather difficult, and despite the attempt, answers float in and out of his head.

                “Get up idiot, we still have the practical in an hour,” Yuri huffs, poking the other. JJ whines, ducking away below his crossed arms, avidly avoiding anything related to the exam.

                “Hey, how was—oh, uh, You okay there?” Try as he can, JJ really can’t find the will to raise his head. Otabek chuckles, turning to Yuri’s frustrated roll of eyes. “Was it that bad?”

                “How should I know? It was okay, I guess. What the hell what short answer about Rowl’s Theorem?” Yuri grumbles. Oh, wait, JJ knows that one.

                “Wasn’t that about plugging in Rowl into Eater? Combining them to create a theorem calculating the ratio between the strength of a meister and weapon?” Otabek answers. JJ furrows his eyebrows, listening in. That’s close to what he put, but not exactly right.

                “Seriously? Fuck. I answered that with Death’s Three Laws of Weapons. Fuck if I can do a thing now,” Yuri hisses, tossing his head back. Overhead, Phichit’s laughter flitters in; the Thai student pokes at Yuri’s forehead teasingly.

                “Poor Yuri. That was a pretty hard question though, wasn’t it? I got some weird decimal for the final calculation, but I couldn’t find my mistake so I just left it,” Phichit explains. Yuri snorts at his finger, tossing his head to dislodge it.

                “A decimal? I left it in rational fraction form?” Otabek responds.

                “I told you! It was 34/527, wasn’t it?” Guang Hong cuts in, jokingly smacking Phichit. The other fakes a yowl, laughing as he raises his hands in surrender.

                “Huh? You guys too? I got a whole number though,” Leo questions, biting his lip worriedly.

                “No one got a whole number except you, Leo. I think you might have plugged in something wrong?” Guang Hong pats his arm sympathetically, “Don’t worry, it’s only one question. It’s really not worth that much.” Okay, that’s just about enough.

                “I got a whole number too,” JJ states. Yuri startles, gazing over to him accusatorily while JJ flashes him an impish grin before returning to the rest of the growing crowd around their desk. “It’s Rowl’s Second Theorem’s X-value plugged into Eater’s, and that ratio is used in conjunction to Death’s Three Laws because we have to use all three equations for three calculations: we need the meister’s wavelength, the weapon’s amplitude and then the change in frequency when attacking. When you do everything out, you get a flat number of 3.”

                Silence meets his words. JJ blinks upwards, glancing over from Otabek to Phichit and back down to Yuri’s dumbfounded face.

                “Um, does that make sense?”

                “Why the hell were you whining about the test?” Yuri deadpans, pinching JJ’s uninjured wrist. JJ whines, pulling it away as Otabek laughs and Leo whoops.

                “I thought so! Oh my god, I got so freaked out,” Leo pats his chest, breathing deeply.

                “Wait,” Guang Hong narrows his eyes, thinking back, “I didn’t apply Death’s Three Rules at all. I used a substitution for the part where you calculate the frequency.”

                “Same here. Professor Katsuki said we could plug in directly to frequency instead of using Death’s Rules,” Otabek comments.

                “But we should have gotten the same answer?” Phichit wonders aloud, tapping against the wooden surface. That is true. Theoretically, regardless of the method, working out the question should give the same answer. JJ purses his lips, thinking.

                Yuri groans.

                “Shut up, all of you. I didn’t even get a flat number in mine. Just go away.” It’s Yuri’s turn to bury his face on the table, making a dull “thud” as his forehead touches down. They chuckle as he bemoans, mumbling something about not sleeping to study. JJ flicks the side of his ear, just because, and Yuri turns to him, lips firmly fitted in a pout.

                “What?” He mumbles.

                “Nothing,” JJ smiles. He draws a line downward Yuri’s neck, and the other flinches, wriggling down but not moving away. It’s cute, and JJ repeats the movement just see the other squirm a moment longer, cheeks pinking.

                “Eek, stop, no, seriously! Alright, that’s enough!” Yuri snaps, hands shooting upward. JJ jumps, jolting back but then Yuri’s hands find their way around his collarbones, fingers scribbling along the soft skin. JJ squeaks, instantly bending his neck but it’s too late; Yuri isn’t letting go.

                “Yuri, no! Okay, o-okay, quit it,” JJ kicks against Yuri’s chair, dislodging absolutely nothing. Yuri’s up and leaning in, fingers prodding and distracting and JJ huffs, hands reaching up to try to pull away at Yuri’s.

                “Don’t dish out what you can’t take,” Yuri retorts, grinning smugly.

                “Are you going to kiss or not?”

                Yuri’s hands leave in a millisecond, shooting back as he squawks at Mila.

                “No! What the hell, crazy woman!” His face is red, mouth agape as he sputters, hands curling around air. His body feels warm, oversensitive, uncertain and horribly, horribly overexposed. The others laugh, jeering in jest, and he wants to wrap his arms around him and stare, tracing every detail of the other.

                Which he?

                Yuri or JJ, quite honestly, he can’t recall.

-

                Winter brings a cold chill to the atmosphere of Death City. The sun’s always cackling face has gone, hidden behind the normal grey clouds that drift in and out as easily as souls. Ice crackles under the force of boots and heels, snapping along the sidewalk during the rush hour to work and school. Young children laugh, play, daring each other to touch the metal poles along the crossings. There’s yet to be a drop of snow in the city despite the clouds that roll in everyday, accompanied by a brisk batting wind, and the everyday weather report of almost definite snowstorms. If one were to stay inside to avoid the temperature, no one could blame them.

                Not a soul stays indoors on the reveal of the prominent awe-inspiring Death City Academy’s exam results. On this very day, the score codes for incoming students to the famed school are revealed at their front steps. Hundreds, thousands maybe, make their way up those stairs, old students and new.

                On the very same day, the results for transferring students go up.

                Most of the hype has come and gone, the results having been posted as early as seven. It’s eleven thirty now, yet there remain groups of students coming up the stairs, curious passerby’s and supporting family and friends. Sometimes, lovers come together, hand in hand, walking up.

                JJ breathes, watching the slow huff of air rise like a cloud of smoke, dissolving.

                “Aren’t you cold without a scarf?” JJ smiles at the voice. Yuri is no better than he—dressed in just a shirt with a jacket thrown over, long pants and sneakers. At the very least, JJ is wearing boots.

                “Are you, Yuri?” JJ asks. Yuri’s hands are in his pockets, jammed in and forming a mound at the bottom of his hoodie. Yuri shakes his head, nodding towards the crowd of people still roaming near the bulletin board.

                The few that remain just mill about, calling their friends, family, some crying in sorrow and some in joy. Weapons and meisters remain few in the vast population, and their chance at a specialty training school is slim. Getting into DCA, for some, is a last chance to walk the dangerous path.

                The numbers are sorted from least to greatest, starting from the 000s to the 999s. The list of transfers is far smaller, both going up to EAT and down to NOT, their codes numbered 1000s and above. In the entire school of DCA, only three thousand students live on campus.

                There are seven thousand enrolled.

                The only way to graduate is to become a Death Weapon, or to wield one. There are those who die on the path there, those who watched their partner die, and those that have abandoned the path. So long as one doesn’t turn corrupt, or a witch, even if they walk to the life of a human their name remains in the long list of students Death City Academy boasts.

                Of those seven thousand, a mere six hundred are in EAT classes. Special students in a special class; battle-hungry, thirsty for knowledge, money, greed, all those components live in those students. They are those with a fire lit in their body, curdling their movements, making their slices precise. They are those who stand with a fierce iciness, cold eyes calculating, strengthening what they know and reaching what they wish to know.

                “JJ.” In the practical, Yuri had make ice and fire.

                “Yes?” They had stumbled, sure, but everyone does. They get the job done, fast, dangerous, shining.

                “That’s my number—1042.” They fought like a duo from the EAT class.

                “Oh.” Now, they are. Yuri points to the number, his hand trembling not of cold, and JJ follows the movement. There it is, proudly printed under 1013 and 1082. To think, the short list of just under twenty students who successfully moved upward from a group of several thousand; Yuri is on it. There, clear as day, between the crinkled coats and knitted gloves and flashes of cellphone cameras, sits Yuri’s number.

                “Congratulations,” JJ says. Yuri’s hand lowers. His stare remains on the board, disbelief, shock, the reality setting in. Yuri had done it. For all his hard work, for five years in the school, for the little words from his grandpa and the pats on the back from Katsuki, for the time grasping Otabek and the time fighting Mila with Georgi, for the moment Phichit had grinned at him and the time Guang Hong waved hello. For that second he turned the corner, mid-complaint, to an ever familiarizing face.

                “You did it.” Yuri did.

                Family often cook a large lunch for their children, in high hopes of them passing, but always ready for comforting treats on the chance they fail. Friends buy good luck charms beforehand, throw around candies and taunt each other about the life they’ll live, together or apart. Good friends, best ones, hug each other, patting their backs and whispering comforts for their tears, good or bad. Lovers often forget where they are, block the board, and kiss.

                Yuri wrings his hands in the soft cotton of JJ’s shirt and tugs him downward.

                Their lips meet to the feel of wind ruffling Yuri’s hair against JJ’s cheeks. JJ’s hands freeze, mid-rise, open palms and fingers. The zipper along his jacket clinks against Yuri’s half zip, and the blown away leaves rustle in the back, scratching against worn tiles. Someone jumps in a frozen over puddle, and the ice cracks.

                Yuri’s lips leave.

                JJ’s hand come up, cupping the back of the blonde and lowering his head, stepping inward. The cold wind that brushes in the gaps between their lips feel wrong.

                Before the bulletin board, before strangers and friends, families, lovers, students and coworkers and teachers, parents and grandparents and children, they kiss.

                “Get a room!”

                Or not.

                “Shit,” Yuri groans, rolling his eyes. JJ smiles, and then they’re off, away from the board and the crowd and tripping down the stairs, down, down, down, that same old path. There’s nothing to say, nothing to do, nothing that they don’t already know.

                JJ makes it to the bottom step just before Yuri does.

                His hand extends, free of bandages, of shards, of scars. It’s as though not a moment had gone by from the beginning of the term, from the raw wounds inflicted by himself, from the weight tying it down. His hand is up in the air, open, free for the taking.

                Yuri takes it. He’s smiling, beaming, little frozen huffs in the air that drift off beyond where their eyes can see, away.

                “I passed.” Ecstatic, enthusiastic. His sneakers crunch against the ice as he pulls and JJ follows.

                “I noticed. Congratulations, Yuri!” JJ laughs because he feels like it. A bubble has burst. His lips burn.

                “Thank you!” Yuri shouts, raising their hands and laughing back, eyes crinkling as his mouth spreads wide, wider, full of unrestrained joy. It’s freeing to see him without the scowl, without the weight on the back of the young, just eyes wide and open and alive.

                “Yuri!” Because it’s now or never, and JJ’s too drunk off of this rush to care, “next term, this term, I’m moving out of the transfer dormitories. Would you like to move in with me?” The air is too dry against their skin and the wind is chilly, cold, freezing them down to the bones and JJ can’t find it in himself to notice, to think about anything but the widening of Yuri’s eyes and that wonderful, beautiful curve of his lips.

                “Yes!” There’s nothing remotely funny about this, but they’re both laughing, belting out joyous noises against the frigid cold. JJ tucks over, Yuri’s knees bent, and they’re bumping, colliding, legs sliding against legs and arms meeting arms, sparkling twinkling eyes that meet another and JJ’s bending down, slowly, purposefully.

                Yuri stands on his toes.

                It’s hard to kiss while laughing, and hard to laugh while kissing. They manage, something wonderful about the feeling of lips curling upwards against their own, chapped lips bitten by the cold and then they’re pulling away, laughing, breathing, scratching each other’s dry skin and back down again, lips meeting lips.

                Something wet hits JJ’s cheek.

                “Ah?”

                Oh.

                White crystals dance in the air, drifting downward in loops and clouds, touching and melting upon touch. Another lands on JJ’s cheek, then his forehead, dusting along his lashes and when his eyes glance to Yuri, he sees the powdered pieces melt away on his skin. It will collect, forming little mounds and blankets, draping the city in its serenity.

                “It’s snowing,” Yuri breathes. Another flake touches down on his lips, melting and dripping off, sliding past his chin and down onto the icy floor. “It never snows this early.”

                “Really? Liberty would be snowed in by now,” JJ whispers. It feels odd, like they’re intruding on the sudden peace that falls over the lights, quieting voices and whispers, gentle touches against their mouths.

                Yuri’s hand shivers.

                “Cold?” Yuri shakes his head, snow catching on the movement, dripping down his hair. Liar, though JJ won’t point it out as Yuri’s hand trembles again. It won’t be easy to walk like this.

                JJ takes Yuri’s opened hands into his and breathes. The wind swirls around the falling droplets of snow, tucking it behind their ears, over their head and falling into the exposed slips of their skin. It’s cold and JJ thinks of warm.

                “Oh,” Yuri murmurs. His hands curl in JJ’s own, small against large, retaining the radiating head from the other. They stand like that, by the staircase under the snow, close between the growing carpet of white on the ground.

                JJ shivers.

                “Cold?” Yuri whispers. JJ grins.

                “A little.”

                “I’m closer,” Yuri points out. There’s frost in his lashes, little trails of melted ice dripping from his hair curled around his face, whipped by the wind. His skin is pale, white, emphasized against the black of his hood and the little crystals that manage to flutter onto his face. He looks cold.

                “Okay,” JJ says. It’s hard to walk like this, both hands joined, bending and bumping into one another, but not a person says a word in protest. They make it across one street, then another, jumping over suspiciously wet puddles and crashing on dried ice ones. JJ’s boot leaves an indent on a particularly solid frozen sheet and he’s not sure who dares who to walk on the frozen over lake but they’re running, tripping, crashing hard because how can one run like this?

                They laugh against the ice, the drifting snow blanketing the black DCA emblem of their clothes, then they’re up, running, colliding, smiles against cheeks and lips brushing against lips.

                “Congrats to Yuri Plisetsky!” JJ shouts against the still.

                “I did it, you fuckers!” Yuri chants, pumping their conjoined hands.

                They make it somehow, dizzying, nearly breaking down Yuri’s front door. Otabek opens it with a raised eyebrow, already chuckling from their noisy shouts, Mila waving from inside. She’s smirking, flashing her phone screen with a mischievous air.

                “Congratulations on finally getting hitched.” It’s a picture of them under the snow, smiling against each other, obviously unaware of the picture taker. They’re closed in, hand in hand, legs crossed over each other and laughing, sparkling bright just as their lips meet.

                Yuri growls, protesting, as JJ laughs, tucking off his shoes and sliding into a free chair. Yuri promises the only the best piroshkies, effectively removing Otabek from the kitchen as the other fakes a dramatic gasp of betrayal. They sit and talk, Yuri pulling out a tray of hot chocolates just minutes later, crowded in their little room. Congratulations go all around, Yuri grinning at the center, and JJ presses another kiss to his cheek to coos from their audience.

                “Congratulations on making it to EAT,” JJ whispers, squeezing Yuri’s hand tight.

                “I couldn’t have make it without you,” Yuri whispers back.

                It’s the earliest snowfall in Death City in the past forty years; a gently falling shower that blankets the city in light winds and frozen over ceilings.

                Under those ceilings, they stay.

-

                JJ wakes to frosted windows and a too-small bed, pressed against something hard on his back. He twists, blinking open sleepy eyes, wondering when he got a bedframe that covered the sides. Then his eyes drift down, down, to the head of blonde cradled at his chest, arms wrapped around his frame, a thin line of drool leaking from the open edge of his lips.

                _JJ, do you want me to be your meister?_

                The sky is greyed out, cloudy, and it’s too warm in the blankets compared to the air outside. JJ jostles his arm just once, to see Yuri have no give in his grip. Well, JJ sighs, that’s fine.

                He closes his eyes, and drifts back to sleep.

_Yes. Yes, fuck, Yuri, yes._

                JJ dreams of jewels, glittering in the light, behind a glass wall to protect it from dirty hands. A robber breaks in and steals it, breaking the glass with a flourish and triumphant in his wins. He’s snarky, stubborn and loud, but he doesn’t display the gemstones. He stitches them into clothing, uses them in crafting, throws them onto his bed and grumbles as they poke into his back. He’s crazy, certainly. In the moment the sun sets, the man lets himself smile.

                Those jewels shine more under his hands than for any other.

                _Don’t follow me. Just stay by my side._

                He could do that.

                JJ could do just that.

**Author's Note:**

> Dang this AU is wringing me  
> I love it though.
> 
> I really want to write Mila/Otabek's arc next. Leo/Guang/Phichit get two whole arcs to themselves, how lucky!


End file.
